


#newpaths

by Hideous_Sun_Demon



Category: Designated Survivor (TV)
Genre: Continuity from season 2, F/M, Gen, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, season 3 re-write
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2020-05-14 00:50:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 58,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19262629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hideous_Sun_Demon/pseuds/Hideous_Sun_Demon
Summary: Tom Kirkman embarks on his re-election campaign—but this time with more familiar faces around him. Justice will be sought, bonds will be formed, and integrity will be tested. This is their story.(Season 3 re-imagined to include all the original characters.)





	1. #onemonthlater

**Author's Note:**

> This is my re-imagining of how season 3 could have happened if certain characters hadn’t been replaced—plus some self indulgent wishful thinking. I’m doing this for the amusement and edification of myself and my friends, but I hope others enjoy this too!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One month after Tom’s re-election announcement, Mars and Nadia are settling into their new roles, Lyor is given a big opportunity, and Emily is faced with a tough choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Spanish translations at the end of the chapter)

**May 29th, 2018**

“ _Only one month after announcing his candidacy for election, President Tom Kirkman needed a home-run at his State of the Union. Instead, he struck out, and hit himself in the head with his own bat...”_

Mars wasn’t sure exactly who had decided to pack so many goddamn TVs into the West Wing, but they better be counting their rosary beads in the hopes that he’d never find out, because they had made the shortlist for him to fire. The month since he’d been appointed Chief of Staff had been amazingly fruitful as far as firings went; he was developing quite the taste for it. And dealing with the President’s bombshell of a State of the Union Address had given him a fucking appetite.

_“Last night’s State of the Union was an irrefutable disaster, and heading into the campaign season, could it put the kibosh on President Tom Kirkman’s chances for election? Coming up next to give his answer to that question, presumptive Republican nominee Cornelius Moss—“_

He switched the TV off with a poisonous jab. Fucking senators. Fucking journalists. Fucking Tom Kirkman and his faulty impulse control. Fucking TVs. Fucking Seth—wait. Seth. Perfect. He caught the Press Secretary’s awkward evasion scuttle out of the corner of his eye, and it warmed his currently murderous heart. Seth was soft, both literally and metaphorically; easy to terrify with just enough resilience to stop him having a breakdown that Mars would have to deal with. The perfect punching bag.

“Seth!” Mars gave him half a second to fall in step beside him. “We need to change the narrative.”

“Uh, y-yeah, uh, I have, um, I have some ideas to run by Mark.”

“Don’t bother,” Mars smiled blandly. “The Communications Director is no longer in the employ of the United States government.”

Seth blanched. “Oh my god, you fired him.”

Mars was already sick of this conversation. “The news media needs a new story. Steer them onto the infrastructure vote coming up.”

Beside him, Seth sped up a fraction, a flicker of surety propelling his step. “I don’t think that’s gonna be enough to distract the press from last night, they’re like a dog with a bone.”

Mars barely even glanced his way, unimpressed. “Well, you know how to get a bone away from a dog, don’t you?”

“...I really hope you’re not gonna say ‘shoot the dog.’”

Mars was still desperately trying to understand how a guy who went so easy on the press had remained Press Secretary all this time. “We’re in the barrel here,” he said warningly. Seth didn’t seem to take the hint, cocking his head at those words.

“Yeah, that’s another phrase that’s always confused me. People say it all the time around here—“

So much for subtlety. Mars cocked his finger very pointedly, jabbing it at Seth’s chest. “In the barrel of a gun pointed at you.”

Seth, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s it.” Mars sighed internally. He couldn’t tell if Wright was being deliberately obtuse as a defence mechanism or as a way to piss him off specifically. Up ahead loomed a room full of other vexing people just waiting to chew Mars ear off—Mars couldn’t believe he was saying this, but it looked like salvation. He swivelled on his heel, staring at Seth flatly.

“Seth, change the narrative. Or you and Mark can meet up at the public library for the resume writing workshop. I hear it’s very informative.”

God, Mars could practically hear Seth gulping.

The Press Secretary scurried off, presumably to coddle some reporters so Mars could yell at him about it later. The thought gave him the warm fuzzies. Considering how this day was going, he was going to need to do more to let off some steam: blood sniffing press mixed with the Democratic representatives waiting to meet with him was a combination that his doctor would describe as an unacceptable risk—

“Mars! I need five minutes with the President.”

Daynes’ voice was just another needle in his brain today. Mars swung around to face Kendra, who had a look on her face that said she was planning to take up as much of his time as possible. Well, she could save her breath. As a rule, Mars considered lawyers better out of sight, out of mind—especially this one. A killer in the courtroom to be sure, but more of an ankle weight to him in the West Wing, especially when she was being weighed down by the extra title of being Trey Kirkman’s girlfriend.

“Not happening today,” Mars said shortly.

Her lips thinned. “Legal issues are time sensitive around here—“

“And I’m sure you can handle it yourself. Or better yet, find your own time to talk to the President. I’m sure you have your ways—Aaron!”

Aaron, he had just enough willpower left to deal with. Mars waved him over, just catching the tail-end of Kendra’s scorching glare. “We’re not done here, Mars,” she cut in, but he was already guiding Aaron away, only granting the NSA a second to throw a mouthed apology over his shoulder before they were out of the danger zone.

“You know, Kendra’s our Counsel for a reason,” Aaron muttered. “I wouldn’t be brushing her off so quick.”

“Or what, she’ll tell her boyfriend on me?” Mars could admit, belatedly, that sounded a whole lot less 1960s in his head, but his point still stood. “There’s a reason I’m keeping Kendra at arm’s length, and it’s the same reason you shouldn’t shit where you eat—it makes a mess, and we’ll all end up sick from it. Now, what news does the NSA have for me?”

Shoring up the medical products manufacturing sector in Puerto Rico, as it turned out. After the day he’d had, it sounded like Tetris. Honestly a relief to deal with. Mars could spend some time on this; Aaron was one of the few people around here he liked, and if he was honest, he didn’t mind wasting the Democrats’ time. He already knew what they were going to say, and he already knew how he was going to respond. If the Democrats were so worried about a three-party race splitting the vote, then they could go right ahead and drop out themselves.

After all, the Kirkman Campaign had already filled out the statement of candidacy with the FEC, and everybody knew what a pain in the ass those folks could be about giving anything back.

 

* * *

 

The State of the Union had been the most satisfying fuck-up of Tom’s life.

Probably not a sentiment he should share with the world, considering how he was already being blasted as ‘reactionary’ and ‘unstable’ by every news channel in America, but after the bridge collapse in North Carolina, and their losing battle with the infrastructure bill, and the sneering apathy of the senators through it all, having a release was exactly what he’d needed. Some self-righteous anger to warm the soul.

If only, Tom reflected bitterly, Elinor had allowed him to bask in that tiny victory for longer than a day before deciding to defect to the Democrats.

Mars was in his office, talking him through how they were going to whip up support for the bill—a pipe dream now, without a VP to smooth-talk the Democrats. Mars had missed their former VP by a minute, so Tom was going to break the news himself—a task which was proving harder and harder to avoid as his Chief of Staff offered reassurances which were, unbeknownst to him, falling utterly flat.

“I’ve been in this town a lot longer than you, sir, and if there’s one constant you can set your watch to, it’s that this too shall pass.”

Tom let out a bitter laugh. “Well, here’s something that won’t pass: our VP just resigned.”

Mars’s face had a moment of careful collapse into wordless frustration before he nodded once, sharply. “That...is an issue. Especially in the outset of a campaign. This is something your campaign manager would be taking point on, if you actually had one—did you check the list?”

Tom sighed. They’d had this conversation too many times already. “The list I never asked for, you mean? You know my choice, Mars.”

Mars’ thinned lips were a familiar sight. “Sir—“

Tom raised an eyebrow. One benefit of Elinor resigning was that he could finally press this issue without Mars insisting on playing Devil’s Advocate. Tom was well-versed in Mars’ arguments—that a fresh perspective would be invaluable, primarily—but this had pushed them past the point of discussion. Finally, Mars gave a tight nod. “Yes sir.”

“Then bring him in, please,” Tom said, the first flicker of that pumping satisfaction that Elinor had doused coming back. “This meeting is long overdue.”

It took Lyor barely three minutes to show up in the Oval. Tom had to wonder if he’d been impatient for this meeting as well. It would ‘t surprise him; Lyor had always been a man who knew his goals. “Come on in,” he greeted Lyor warmly as he stood. Lyor’s face was giving away an impressive amount of nothing. Tom spread his hands. “You’ve been by my side for over a year now, and you’ve been an invaluable part of my staff....” Lyor wore an amused sort of smile, and Tom chuckled. “Why don’t we just cut to the chase?”

Lyor inclined his head. “The Campaign Manager position.”

“I know you have a background in campaign management, you’re smart, you’re candid, and you’re party-agnostic.” As he spoke, Tom rounded his desk to come face to face with Lyor. “But most importantly, I already know that I can trust you.” This was the element that Mars was neglecting, and the one which was non-negotiable for Tom. Lyor had more than proven himself in the year and a half that they’d worked together, and for all that the man could be a...challenge to work with, Lyor was the only person Tom could see himself handing the reins over to for the most important 16 months of his life. “What do you say?”

Lyor’s smile was as understated as always, but his response was instant. “I won’t let you down, sir.” Tom grinned as they shook hands—Lyor’s was practically vibrating from excitement. “You’ve just your first good decision for this campaign.”

Tom snorted internally. At least the confidence was inspiring.

Lyor was drumming his fingers together, alight in a way Tom hadn’t seen in the wake of Emily’s resignation. He’d oddly missed it. “Now, I have some thoughts on Wednesday’s rally—“

Tom burst out laughing, clapping Lyor’s shoulder as he guided him towards the door. “Wait until we’ve settled your salary first, Lyor. Go on, you’ve got a whole team waiting for you.”

There was that smile again, bright and devilish and full of promise as Lyor nodded enthusiastically and raced out of the room. Tom watched him go, and silently sent up a prayer for all the poor suckers who were about to find out who their new boss was. They had no idea what they were in for.

 

* * *

 

Spending a month somewhere really taught you a lot about it. Namely, a month in Florida had taught Emily just how keenly she detested it.

That wasn’t completely fair. Spontaneously falling birds hitting her car wasn’t great, but the people were friendly, and she’d even adjusted to the sticky heat eventually. And there was mum, of course—Emily couldn’t truly hate any place her mum called home. It wasn’t that she hated Florida for what it was; Emily hated it for what it wasn’t. Not brisk, not exciting, not.....D.C.

Emily sighed as she began unpacking mum’s meds— now, years and thousands of pills since her mum’s diagnosis, the amount of medicine she had to watch her mum force down her throat still made her breath catch. Her heart would always be where her mum was, but D.C was her home. Too bad that was over.

Her phone buzzed. Picking it up, Emily’s heart buzzed right along with it—it was Seth. It was almost spooky, the way he could ring at just the second Emily had been indulging in her nostalgic pity-party. She let the call ring out for a few seconds, chewing her lip. Seeing that name on the screen was like her old life calling her, and it always wrapped her in an uncomfortable quilt of emotion—excitement, regret, frustration, and that deep back-of-the-throat yearning she would get looking out on the Florida horizon at night, tracing the memory of the Capitol building with her eyes.

But this old life was the type to call back, so Emily braced herself and answered. “Hey Seth.”

“Hey!” Seth’s voice bubbled down the line. “How’s Florida?”

Emily huffed dryly. “Humid and infuriating. How’s D.C?”

“Cold and infuriating,” Seth chuckled. When he continued, his voice rang with the sound of Seth-with-an-agenda; a tone which he thought was subtle, and was painfully not. “Did you watch last night?”

Emily wondered if he could hear her rolling her eyes. “Yes, Seth, I watched the President’s State of the Union Address.”

“What’d you think?”

“You mean policy-wise, or...?”

“Em, what’d you think?”

It was hard to side-step that wheedling tone. Emily swung the medicine cabinet shut with a sigh. “Honestly? It was refreshing to see someone being truthful about the swamp for once.”

Seth laughed. “Well, could you convey that to the swamp? Because we’re getting absolutely murdered here.”

Emily had to smile. She knew Seth had loved that speech as much as she had. He was a staunch admirer of the President’s unshakeable earnestness, even if it cost him a rough week with the press. But Seth would have already known that they shared the same views on this; it definitely didn’t justify a phone call. “Why’re you calling, Seth?” she pressed.

There was a pregnant pause. “The President’s been different since you left. I don’t wanna say unmoored, but, um, you were always sort of the Kirkman-Whisperer, and I thought if you could...come back?”

Emily nodded slowly as she listened, her smile becoming a ghost on her lips. “Don’t you remember why I left in the first place?” Even the memory—harassing the Chief Justice, hacking Simon Day’s phone, leaking classified information—made her stomach clench with seething shame. “It wasn’t exactly a graceful exit.”

Seth let out a bark of laughter. “No, it was more of a flaming cannon-ball of an exit.” Emily ducked her head. She probably deserved that, but it still felt like a slap in the face.

A sigh whistled down the line. “Look, Em...I’m not saying you should come work here again,” Seth said gently. “Just...visit a while. Remind him who he used to be.”

Emily stared out the kitchen window, out into a street that still felt foreign. She wondered if going back would remind her who she used to be as well, before her resignation, before—well. She’d resigned precisely because she felt that person had gotten lost somewhere in D.C, and that being here and caring for her mum would be the only way to find her again. But now, wth Seth’s voice warm and familiar in her ear and the State of the Union whirring in the back of her mind, it felt tantalisingly possible.

Seth sounded like he was about to say something else, but he was cut off by the muffled sounds of a phone being held against the shoulder and what sounded like “Lyor, I’m on the phone, can you not—“ before he returned. “Sorry. Just...think about it? Please, Em?”

Nothing really had changed, Emily reflected wryly and with a sharp pang of fondness. All of a sudden, she missed Seth, and Lyor, and all of the White House so much it arched down to her belly, like a surgical incision not quite healed. She felt severed.

Without thought, she wandered to the kitchen entrance, where she could see mum reclined and pale on the couch. Mum hadn’t wanted her to quit her job in the first place—not that Emily had been able to bring herself to admit the real reason why, anyway—but that didn’t matter. Mum never thought herself worthy of a fuss, even when that fuss was over the return of late-stage ovarian cancer. Especially then. Nothing was going to stop Emily from taking care of her mum, but...

Her mum was her heart. D.C was her home.

“I’ll think about it,” she said quietly, and hung up the phone.

 

* * *

 

Emily gave her quiet goodbyes and hung up. The call had left Seth feeling slightly unbalanced. He could put it down to the memory of how abruptly—and for what reason—she’d left in the first place, or the lingering awkwardness that had seeped into their interactions since they’d broken up, but talking to Emily after all this time was a little disquieting. Still, Seth had wanted to do this. For Em, yes, but also for the President; the administration. Seth wanted to help—wanted to do more than “shoot the dogs,” as Mars so delicately implied. Sometimes it felt like all he was doing these days was missing his shot.

But he’d tried his best with Emily, no matter how odd—and she wasn’t the only odd thing he had to focus on right now. He levelled a half-hearted glare at Lyor, who had traipsed in unannounced, ignored his waved attempts to shoo him out, and was currently perched across from him at his desk, reorganising his pens. Since Taurasi, Lyor had decided he had free reign over Seth’s space. Seth might have actually been annoyed if, after a whole month, he hadn’t grown accustomed to Lyor being like a twitchy piece of furniture for the office. And, really, Lyor being clingy—not that he’d ever admit that—was endearing, in a disconcerting kind of way.

Still, Seth felt he owed it to his own self respect to give Lyor a reminder about boundaries. But before he could, his friend was already interjecting.

“Emily?” He clicked a blue cap onto the matching pen. “Why?”

Seth raised an eyebrow. “Uhhh, because believe it or not, I like to keep in contact with people in my life. It’s called having friends.”

Lyor quirked his lips, giving Seth a sly look under his glasses. “I thought being friends with your exes was a myth.”

Seth snorted as he edged his pen holder out of Lyor’s reach. “You’re friends with your ‘only-technically’ wife. And her boyfriend.”

“Colin is more of an acquaintance.”

Seth had to laugh, shaking his head fondly. Lyor really was ridiculous. “Whatever. Hey, I missed you all this morning,” he said brightly. “Getting coffee was so lonely without you being there to tell me it would increase my risk of cardiac arrest before 50 by sevenfold.“ That was a moment Seth couldn’t quite pinpoint: when he and Lyor had made getting coffee—or, well, Seth getting coffee and Lyor complaining about it—a thing. The first time had been in the wake of Taurasi, and one time had turned into two times had turned into a hesitant daily ritual. It was unexpected, but it was nice. As busy as it was, the West Wing could be a lonely place to work.

“You shouldn’t scoff. Correlation rarely equals causation, but you have a history of going for coffee and then nearly dying.”

Seth’s lips twitched. “...You think my caffeine addiction caused a tsunami?” Lyor sniffed, but there was a subtle smirk playing over his face. From anyone else, that joke would have left an uncomfortable twinge in the back of his mind, but Lyor had more than earned the right to share in gallows humour over that particular memory. “Seriously, man, where were you? Mars finally make good on firing you?”

“Actually, I have insurance against that now.” There was an undercurrent in his voice that made Seth give him a proper look. That smirk had blossomed into an honest smile. “The President just made me his Campaign Manager.”

“What?” Seth’s jaw dropped into a gaping grin. “Dude, this is big news!” Lyor still didn’t go in for hugs, so Seth repressed his natural instincts, instead reaching across the desk to just grace his friend’s shoulder. Lyor’s eyes flickered behind his glasses, and he gave a thoughtful hum.

“It’ll only be big news once I win him the re-election,” he said.

Seth barked out a laugh, staring Lyor down with a dubious eye. “Is false modesty part of some self-improvement kick you’re on? ‘Cause it does not suit you.”

“I’m just stating facts.” Lyor leaned forward languidly, sleek as a cat with eyes glinting. “Fact number two: I will win him this re-election.”

Seth snorted. “There he is.”

They were interrupted by a knock on the door—Amelia, Seth’s assistant was standing at the door, looking slightly above her usually level of deep exasperation. “Seth? You were supposed to be on 15 minutes ago.”

“Yeah, alright,” Seth waved her off, leaping up and checking his watch—shit, he really was late. The journalists would be chomping at the bit. “Hey, I’m buying you a drink, okay?” he called from the doorway to Lyor, who was still lounging at his desk. Lyor gave an impatient little sigh, but Seth just rolled his eyes fondly—he knew this routine all too well: Lyor would always protest Seth’s invitations out, but he would show up every time without fail; complaining, inevitably, but there.

As he left, Seth caught a flash of Lyor out of the corner of his eye; smiling quietly, delightedly to himself. Yeah, Seth thought smugly as he walked away, he knew what Lyor was about.

 

* * *

 

Nadia spun herself languidly around in her chair, enjoying the full scope view it provided of her new office. Her office. The office of Deputy Director of Social Innovation and Communications: Nadia Espinosa. God, she loved how that sounded, even if it still felt bizarre to say in her head. Three weeks since she’d gotten this job, and she still couldn’t quite believed she’d managed to make her way into the White House.

Which was probably why she’d only just finished settling in to her office—she couldn’t quite believe she was here to stay. But she was, and Nadia had spent the beginning of her lunch break putting the finishing touches on her desk to prove it. She adjusted the photo frame by her elbow: her mother, smiling up at the camera with little four year old Nadia clinging to her neck. She wondered how her mum would have felt, knowing that shy scrap of a daughter wrapped around her would end up here. Nadia didn’t remember much of her, all things considered, but she knew enough to think that she’d be proud.

“Qué piensas, mami?” She turned the frame to get a good look at the office. “Bonita vista, verdad?”

“Seguro que lo es.” Nadia startled at the sound of her cousin’s voice. Aaron was leaning against the doorway, lunch in hand.

“Hey there, desconocido.” Nadia grinned, leaning back in her chair. “You here to sit your ass down and eat with me for once?” Nadia had thought that working in the same building as her cousin would mean actually getting to see him every now and then. Apparently not.

Aaron glanced down at his sandwich and his coffee like he’d forgotten they were there. His brows pinched together in a way that meant he was searching for excuses. “Actually, I was just stopping to say hi....” he trailed off lamely as Nadia trotted out her big, puppyish, “please-play-with-me-Aaron” eyes that she’d perfected at age five. They still worked like a charm.

It took her three seconds to break him. She grinned as he sighed and came over, pushing a desk chair out for him with her feet. Aaron was almost too easy.

“So, you’re finally making yourself at home?” he asked once he was settled. He smirked over the brim of his coffee cup. “Thought Mars would’ve spooked you by now.”

Nadia scoffed. “Please. I was raised by Rosa Espinosa and your mother; you think that cabrón’s gonna scare me?” Aaron chuckled, inclining his head in acknowledgement. She’d only known her mum for six years, but Rosa Espinosa was the type to leave an impression. Tia Marcia was a kitten by comparison, but she was still enough to leave a guy like Mars quaking in his perfectly polished shoes.

She continued. “It’s different from the Congressional Caucus. Bigger.” She turned her eyes down to her salad. “Maybe that’s why I barely see you.” Internally, Nadia winced at how needy that had sounded. It was fine, really. She was a grown ass woman, not some little kid who needed her big cousin to hold her hand—but she’d barely seen him since he’d bought her a drink the night she’d told him she’d gotten this job. Plus, it was always so fun to tease him.

Aaron was silent for a second too long. “Being NSA doesn’t leave a lot of time for socialising.”

“Pfft, don’t think you can lie to me.” Nadia jabbed her fork accusingly in his face. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Aaron threw down his sandwich in defeat, bowing his head. “It’s not that I’ve been avoiding you, Nadia. I just want to give you your own space.” He actually looked a little guilty, bless his dumb heart. “You got here on your own; I don’t want people thinking you got this job because...”

“Because my big cousin’s senior staff?” Nadia grinned, shaking her head with fond exasperation. Aaron spent way too much energy worrying about things that weren’t an issue. Probably why he needed so much coffee. “I bet most people around here don’t even know we’re related, _Mr Shore._ ”

Aaron put his hands up, smiling a little despite himself. “Hey, I’m just looking out for you, okay? I don’t want Tia Rosa’s ghost finding out her little girl got screwed by Washington on my watch.” He shot a furtive glance over at Nadia’s photo frame. “Because she _does_ scare me.”

“Mmhm. Well, I forgive you,” she said gravely.

“Oh thank god.” Aaron’s voice was as dry as an El Paso summer.

Nadia threw a napkin at his face. “Eat your lunch. Got me sounding like your mami.”

Aaron laughed, and Nadia beamed. Her cousin may have been a ghost for the last month, but it was good to know that hadn’t changed him.

 

* * *

 

Emily rolled flight-cramp from her shoulders as she let herself into her D.C flat, flicking disinterestedly through the small build-up of mail. She’d told herself she was done with impulsive moves, but Seth’s phone call had stuck in her mind, rolling over her thoughts like unrelenting waves until she’d found herself buying an evening ticket to D.C. It wasn’t a big deal, she reassured herself with the steady mantra she’d been using since she’d bought the ticket. It was just a visit, just a favour for a friends just a—

What the fuck.

Hannah Wells was perched on her sofa, looking eerily nonchalant for someone carrying a loaded gun. Through the furious flood of blood in Emily’s ears, she heard Hannah say: “sit down,” her voice full of deadly calm.

For half a second, Emily wanted to ask how Hannah had known she’d be home, but that was quickly succeeded by the realisation that Hannah had probably had eyes on her for whatever this was. And, more importantly, it didn’t matter when there was a gun pointed in her direction.

“What the fuck is this about, Hannah?” she asked, inching her way towards the couch. Hannah stood, but not before handing over a phone. Emily stared dazedly on the screen: on it, a miniature version of her handed over an envelope to....Valeria Poreskova. Oh. Emily felt a bizarre sort of relief as understanding dawned. For a ridiculous second, she’d wondered if this was about the hacking she’d gotten Chuck Russink to do—something which actually had been illegal, even if it didn’t exactly call for an armed nighttime visit—but this she could explain. Assuming Hannah could be reasoned with.

She had to say something so, throat still dry from terror, she asked: “Where did you get this?”

“From your friend, Valeria,” Hannah replied shortly. “After she tried to kill me.”

“And you think that has something to do with this?” Emily’s eyes flicked back to the gun. Her heart was climbing up into her throat.

Hannah’s flinty eyes glinted. “Unless provided with a better explanation? Yes.”

Emily braced herself. She needed to believe Hannah would take her word on this. “The President...directed me to backchannel information to the Russians, but beyond that I cannot divulge any details.” God, that felt like a lifetime ago now. Emily never thought it would have led her here. She stared up at Hannah imploringly. “Whatever happened between you and Valeria, I wasn’t a part of it.”

The gun was still being held worryingly high. What more did she want? “What are you gonna do, torture me?”

Hannah, for a second, looked on the verge of a smile, and Emily shivered. “I have to attend a disciplinary hearing,” Hannah said as she picked up the phone, waving it tauntingly in Emily’s direction. “You think they’d be interested in this?”

For the first time in this entire ordeal, Emily felt the power swing back to her court. Hannah must really be grasping at straws here if she thought this video was going to lead her to some sort of prize. “You really thing the FBI doesn’t already know?” she asked, trying to keep the incredulity out of her voice.

Hannah stared her down for an agonisingly long moment before she finally lowered the gun, edging back towards the shadows of her doorway. She was still skewering Emily with a glare, full of cold promise. “If I find out you’re lying to me, it would be redundant to say I know where you live, right?”

Hannah let herself out. Emily listened for the soft click of the door shutting and waited another minute just to be safe before collapsing against her couch pillows, heart screaming. She very desperately tries not to think about this seemed like a terrible omen for her return to D.C. her visit, her favour, her—whatever. She let out a deep breath.

Welcome back indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Qué piensas, mami? Bonita vista, verdad?” = “What do you think, mum? Nice view, right?”  
> “Seguro que lo es.“ = “It sure is.”  
> “Desconocido.” = “Stranger.”
> 
> *Edit because I can’t do maths: Nadia was six when her mother died, not ten.


	2. #who’sback?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emily’s return to D.C stirs mixed feelings in everyone, not least of all herself.

**May 30th, 2018**

It was terrifying, frankly, how quickly a person could become irrelevant in D.C. Emily tried her best to not be too disheartened as she made her still-familiar way through the West Wing with Seth by her side. Even after a month on what may as well have been a different planet she could still make her way through these halls blindfolded, intimately familiar with each twist and turn and table. There was no way Emily could ever forget this building. But, she realised as she caught passing Junior Staffers tossing her fleeting, confused looks, it seemed like the building had forgotten her.

Even Seth seemed out of sorts. They’d never quite gone back to how things between them had been before Seth broke up with her, but this was a whole new level of awkward for him. He was smiling just a bit too constantly and talking just a bit too loud, being overly cheerful in that way of his that Emily knew meant he was trying to squash down a mess of nerves. Maybe it had something to do with the look Kendra had shot Seth as they’d crossed her path earlier; one with a polite smile that couldn’t mask the promise of one of her famous verbal eviscerations that Emily was painfully familiar with—Seth was right to be scared. Or maybe it was all in Emily’s head. She was still shaken from Hannah’s visit last night. Being accused of treason would leave anyone unnerved. Emily resolved to push this dissonance to the back of her mind, focusing instead on maintaining her utterly unbothered smile.

Two voices, one wondrously familiar, floated down the hall. Ahead of them, Tom rounded the corner, locked in conversation with... _oh_. Emily recognised Mars Harper instantly: her replacement. Unlike Emily, who had spent the last half hour feeling almost invasive, Mars fit seamlessly into the White House. He looked like he’d been custom made to stand by the President’s side.

Emily tried not to think too much about how deeply it hurt to see how well this place had healed from her amputation. She was the only one left with any scars, it seemed. She couldn’t hold onto that ache for long though, not with the way Tom was beaming at her.

“Emily!” he exclaimed, abruptly breaking off his conversation with Mars, which left Emily feeling stupidly smug. “I didn’t know you were coming in today!”

“Neither did I,” Mars added, fixing his eagle-glare on Seth. “Didn’t see her name on the schedule.”

“Uh, it was a last-minute addition.” Emily could practically hear Seth shrinking in on himself with those words, but it was hard to pay attention to with all these emotions warring it out in her chest.

Mars subtly curled his lip at Seth before sticking his hand out to Emily. “Mars Harper. It’s a pleasure.”

“Emily Rhodes. Same.” So easy to make it sound genuine. One thing Emily definitely hadn’t forgotten from this place was how to fake sincerity with a smile.

There was something in Mars’ returning smile that told her he could smell her bullshit a mile off, and that his sincerity equally insincere. Disconcerting, but through the layers of discomfort and, yes, jealousy, she couldn’t help but approve. That discernment would serve any Chief of Staff well. The President couldn’t have picked a better replacement.

Mars Harper, Emily was sure, would never compromise the President. Her chest tightened.

He released her hand, turning to Tom. “You’ve got the Director of Domestic Policy Council waiting, sir.”

“Right,” Tom said reluctantly. He was still all eyes for Emily, and she was beginning to understand why Seth had thought her visit would be so good for him. As for herself, Emily was happy to bask in the warmth of his welcome. “Come here,” he said, pulling her in for a tight hug. Emily’s heart swelled; there was no awkwardness here. Tom seemed to think there was nothing more normal than her being here.

Maybe he could convince Emily as well.

He pulled away, gracing her with one last fond smile. “Hopefully we can catch up later.”

“We will,” Emily promised warmly, and the anxious pressure inside her eased up slightly. At least some things hadn’t changed.

 

* * *

 

Lyor was a lot of things right now. He was stressed. He was vexed. He was jittery—that was from the two coffees he’d forced himself to down this morning. Irritation and anxiety inducing, yes, but Lyor needed something to get him through today, and he didn’t have any athlete-level steroids on hand. See? This is what Seth had brought him to.

Yes, he couldn’t forget that—he was also wondering when Seth had suffered the kind of brain injury that made him think bringing Emily back to the White House was a good idea. It wasn’t even as though Seth hadn’t known about Emily’s attached baggage—he’d known longer than Lyor had, actually, along with Kendra. At least Kendra was on his side in this. She was the one who’d told him of Emily’s arrival, and was the one walking by his side to go confront the issue.

Their timing was perfect. They intercepted Seth just as he was turning the corner towards them—nearly smacked into him, actually, which allowed Lyor to accost him before he could double back and avoid him like he so clearly wanted to.

“ _You_. _You_ did this.” He jabbed a finger at Seth’s chest for emphasis.

Seth seemed inappropriately unimpressed, deftly brushing Lyor away with the audacity of an eye roll. “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition, huh?” he muttered, eyeing Kendra’s stony presence by Lyor’s side. “Good morning to you too, my esteemed colleagues.”

Kendra wasn’t softened. “Emily’s back?”

Accepting his fate, Seth sighed, leading them to a quieter corner of the hallway. “I thought it could be good for her and the President both.”

“She doesn’t exactly have a history of being good for the President.”

“Or me,” Lyor chimed in.

Kendra nodded. “Or me.”

Lyor, again: “Or you, for that matter.”

Kendra shook her head. “Need I remind you why she left in the first place?”

“No, you need not,” Seth said firmly. He looked frazzled, but also willing to stand his ground, and Lyor knew that was a difficult place to get Seth to budge from. “I get where you guys are coming from, I do. But it’s _just_ a visit.”

Lyor had about a thousand things to say about what even one visit could do to their optics, and how he’d known Emily long enough to appreciate how adept she was at sticking, but Seth powered on before he had the chance. “And...I know she screwed up, but she knows that too, and she’s had time to get her shit together.” He stared beseechingly. “It’s _Em_ , you guys.”

Lyor pinched the bridge of his nose. Seth was dangerously liberal with his second chances. Lyor was almost curious to see what could push him over the edge. “If your heart bled any more, you’d go into hypovolemic shock.”

Seth didn’t even blink. “Admit it; you guys missed her.”

“That’s not the point, Seth,” Kendra sighed, “and you know it.”

Lyor nodded vigorously. Maybe—not that he’d ever admit this—he had missed his old friend amongst all the headaches and indignation and frayed trust she’d caused him, but that didn’t matter. Feelings did not even begin to factor into the equation. If only Seth would get that.

Seth, of course, only shook his head. “Guys, I know Em, okay? It’ll be fine.” He clapped Lyor on the shoulder, giving them both a reassuring smile that was as unconvincing as it was irritatingly charming, and took off.

“This,” Lyor said in the wake of Seth’s departure, “was not the first thing I wanted to deal with in this campaign.”

Kendra threw her hands in the air, turning to Lyor incredulously. “What do I have to give to have somebody listen to me around here?”

Lyor tilted his head. “Hmm. Well, the last time we had this conversation you threatened me with a letter opener, so I’m going to leave now.” He was in no mood to reiterate how people were uncomfortable with negotiating Kendra’s elevated standing since getting intimate with the President’s family and risk assault again.

He turned on his heel, leaving Kendra with her troubled frown as he ruminated on the impossibility that was Seth Wright and his incurable hero complex. Ignoring Kendra on this had nothing to do with Seth not knowing how to handle her, Lyor knew. It was unfortunate, really—it would have been easier to be angry at him for that than for earnestly believing Emily had changed. More than anything, Lyor was just bracing himself on behalf of Seth for the disillusionment he knew was going to slap him in the face. Lyor knew all too well what that would be like.

If this was what the rest of the campaign had in store for him, he mused miserably, then it would make Sisyphus’ punishment look like a children’s game.

 

* * *

 

Aaron checked his phone on his way to grab some lunch. Still no new messages.

He honestly didn’t know what he was expecting; Hannah wasn’t the most communicative of people. She’d had the courtesy of messaging him after London to let him know she was still alive, and then: radio silence. He’d been kept up to date on her solely through his FBI contacts, which was how he knew she had a disciplinary hearing tomorrow.

A hearing he already knew the outcome to. Everyone who had the most basic understanding of the facts did, really. But Aaron also had far more than a basic understanding of Hannah Wells, and he knew she wouldn’t take this well. At least when she’d been working for him he’d been able to try and mitigate the damage she’d been dealt, and before him, she’d had Russink. But once the FBI disowned Hannah, she’d have nobody. The thought didn’t settle well with Aaron at all.

He was so absorbed in wondering whether there was any point sending her a message himself that he was barely paying attention to who was around him as he walked, until he caught a flash of something familiar yet out of place. Passing a few feet away, separated from him by a squawking flock of Communications staffers, was Emily.

It was enough to stop him in his tracks for a second. Nobody had told him that Emily was coming in today, and it was certainly the last thing he’d expected. He was surprised by the roaring swell of emotion that rose at the sight of her. Her resignation had never felt quite real to him—perhaps because she’d left so abruptly, too torn up, or maybe too embarrassed, for any goodbyes. And then it was a month of nothing but the occasional update from Seth. All of it had left Aaron half-guessing whether it actually happened at all—other politicians in the swamp had a high turnover rate, but not Emily, not like this. Until now. Seeing Emily here, with a guest pass on her lapel, was indelible proof that she really was gone, and suddenly Aaron was all too aware of how much he’d missed her.

Over the small sea of bobbing heads Emily glanced around, and their eyes locked. She didn’t say anything, or approach—with the flick of her gaze to his phone and his somewhat-focused stride she must have assumed he was in the middle of something—but she smiled. The brightness of it was another shock to his system.

Automatically, he raised his hand in a wave. Her smile widened, and then in another second she was gone.

Aaron lowered his hand, dumbfounded. That had been bizarre; almost like a vision. Why was she here? How long was she staying? What—?

His phone buzzed. His previous fixation instantly returning, Aaron searched eagerly for Hannah’s name on his screen, but only found a message notifying him that he’d been invited to the Residence for dinner, along with Seth and...Emily.

Well. He couldn’t decide if he should be disappointed or excited. The swirl of emotions congealed into a general unease, but at least he knew he’d be getting answers from somebody tonight. As for Hannah...Aaron stared down at his phone for a drawn few seconds before resolutely slipping it back into his pocket. There was nothing he could say that could make what was happening to Hannah better, and he certainly didn’t want to make things worse.

And, truth be told, he didn’t want to be left disappointed again.

 

* * *

 

“I still can’t believe Emily’s back.”

Kendra paced, with Trey sitting by as her dutiful audience. He’d come into her office to pick her up for the evening so they could leave together. That had been ten minutes ago. Tonight, Kendra still had a lot on her mind after talking to Seth that morning, and Trey was sweetly letting her have her moment.

“It’s just for a visit though, right?” he asked. Kendra scowled.

“For now. But you know what a soft touch your brother is—he never wanted her to leave in the first place.” Kendra groaned into her hands as Trey nodded thoughtfully. “And I can warn people all I like, but it’s not like they’re gonna listen.” She spat those words with the poisonous bitterness of weeks of built up frustration. Kendra was used to being ignored—it was the unfortunate par for the course of being a lawyer, where the advice you gave was almost always the advice people didn’t want to hear. But the last month had been particularly troublesome, and as much as Kendra hated to admit it, she knew the reason—and the reason was sitting on her office couch.

“People like Emily, babe,” Trey tried to soothe. Kendra’s heart squeezed at his efforts. She hadn’t talked to Trey about this, mostly because she knew exactly what kind of kicked-puppy-guilt it would elicit from him. But Kendra wanted to talk to Trey about things like this. It was a strange sensation, not one she was used to after such a long string of hollow relationships, but Kendra liked the feeling; she wanted to indulge it a little.

Trey outstretched his hand and Kendra took it, allowing herself to be pulled down beside him onto the couch. “It’s not even just Emily; it’s everything,” she began, and Trey tilted his head, confusedly concerned. “You should’ve seen how Mars brushed me off yesterday. Nobody takes me seriously anymore! They all assume I’m compromised because whenever they look at me they see you, and whenever they look at you they see your brother. It’s ridiculous, and infuriating—and more than a little sexist!” Kendra knew, realistically, that not all of this was coming from everyone in the West Wing suddenly becoming monster-misogynists. It was more subtle than that, more subconscious. People didn’t know how to treat her anymore, sensing the inevitable dynamic shift and wondering if they should give her special treatment for being in the President’s favour or dismiss her because she had too much personal investment in what they did now. Easier just to ignore her completely. Kendra had expected it, on some level. She hadn’t expected just how isolating it was going to be.

Trey squeezing her hand brought her back to herself and she sighed, squeezing back. “I just...I don’t know what to do.”

Trey was frowning. “You’re right, it is ridiculous. Look, I don’t know, maybe I can talk to Tom—“

Kendra gave him a flat stare.

“...And that is not helping the situation at all, gooootcha.” He grinned sheepishly.

Kendra laughed a little, briefly dropping her head to his shoulder. “There’s nothing you can do. It’s just a....shitty situation.”

When she looked up and saw Trey’s face, her heart sank. There it was: the puppy had been kicked.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“It’s not your fault.”

“I’m still sorry.”

For that, Kendra leaned up to kiss him tenderly. She needed Trey to know she didn’t blame him for this, and she found that with him, actions—certain actions—spoke louder than words. When she pulled back he was smiling, and Kendra counted that as a success.

“Can I try and make it up to you?” he asked mischievously, pulling them both up off the couch but keeping an arm wrapped around her waist. “Tom’s having guests over tonight, so I went ahead and made us a reservation at Omoros for 7 o’clock.”

Kendra raised an eyebrow. Omoros? As in her favourite vegan restaurant she was pretty sure she’d only mentioned once before? Oh, he was _good_.

“Okay....” she said slowly. “That might work.” He pulled her in for another kiss, and she hummed contentedly against his lips. The part of her mind that was always whirring wondered if one of those dinner guests of Tom’s was Emily, but at that moment she made an executive decision to push Emily as far out of her mind as possible for the rest of the night. It had been so long since she was able to enjoy things the way she did with Trey, and she wasn’t going to let anyone ruin that for her. Not tonight.

 

* * *

 

Tom kept an eye on the door to the Residence. He’d invited Aaron, Seth, and Emily to a dinner to kick off the campaign, and while the first two were currently talking shop about the infrastructure bill, the third was still yet to arrive. He hoped she hadn’t turned down the invite entirely; Tom could tell from running into her this morning that she seemed a little hesitant about being back in D.C at all. He just hoped she’d remember that, resignation or no, they were still old friends, and he’d truly meant it when he’d said they needed to catch up—

There was movement by the door, and Tom saw Aaron and Seth’s faces light up with matching grins as Emily made her entrance. Tom’s vigil had paid off.

“Emily, I’m so glad you could make it,” Tom said beamingly, beckoning her in. He glanced around at the three faces he now knew so well, and for a second he felt like he’d stepped two years into the past. So much had happened in that time, plenty of which he didn’t want to even think about right now, but it was reassuring that, through it all, these three had remained by his side.

He grinned. “The band is getting back together.”

The more they settled into dinner, the more they settled into their old rhythms. Tom let the sounds of Emily and Seth bickering over pasta and Aaron slyly ribbing Seth about how many text messages he’d gotten from Lyor that day drone into a pleasant background hum as he considered why he’d really asked them all over here. He needed their guidance, their counsel, as he so often did, but also....his eyes focused on Emily. Like this, comfortable in the presence of friends, she looked totally at ease. Like she’d never left. Like there was still a place for her here.

It was time to cut to the chase. “Alright, you three. As much as I enjoy this conviviality, I had an ulterior motive to bring you all here tonight.” The table fell to silence. Their attention held, Tom continued on. “Now, I know that I surprised all of you with my announcement to run. And I’m sorry I didn’t share that decision with you. But each of you has been with me since the beginning of this ride—Emily, even longer. And since Alex died, you’ve become the people I trust the most. So I need your opinion, your advice. This election—can I win it?”

Barely a second passed before the anticipated explosion of affirmations rocked the table. Tom shook his head to quieter them down—if he’d wanted yes-men, he would have had dinner with other people. That wasn’t why he trusted these three. “Okay, okay. As well intentioned as your bullshit responses are, come on, I need you to be honest. Tell me what you really think. Tell me the truth.”

Unsurprisingly, Seth was the first to speak. “It’s not impossible, but...” Tom listened sombrely as he echoed the words of every political pundit since Tom made his re-election bid—that there were too many obstacles for an Independent candidate to circumvent, especially without a party organisation. And Aaron’s logic that he would lose all the conservatives to Moss and the progressives and racial minorities to the Democrats was hard to fault. They were confirming all the thoughts that had kept Tom up at night since announcing his campaign.

“Emily, what do you think?” As much as Tom valued the wisdom of the two men at the table, it was Emily’s he’d been waiting for this entire time, in anxious trepidation. She’d said, when she’d resigned, that she hadn’t been a very good Chief of Staff, hadn’t she? Tom hadn’t believed her. Now was the time to put that to the test.

All eyes were on Emily now. She hesitated a moment, eyes fixed on her plate, but then she raised them to meet Tom’s with a firm surety. “I think you can do it,” she said simply. “But you’re asking the wrong thing. ‘Can I win?’ makes the question about you, when the question should be about the country. So it’s not, ‘can I win?’ It’s ‘why am I running in the first place?’ So, why are you?”

Tom nodded in thought, but inside relief was pouring through him. The last flutterings of doubt were swept away. That question gave him an uncomfortable amount to think about, but that was exactly it—it was forcing him to ask himself the right things. He was being pointed in the direction he knew he ought to be going.

That was his Em.

 

* * *

 

Emily sat at her dining room table, nursing a cup of tea and trying to let the seeping warmth of it convince her that she was satisfied with how the day had gone. There was no reason not to be—she’d gotten to walk the West Wing again, see some old friends, and at dinner tonight she’d fulfilled her favour to Seth; as best as she could, she’d tried to remind Tom why he’d agreed to stay on as President when all this began two years ago. It had been the easiest guidance she’d ever given him; words that she could believe as well, and which left her conscience refreshingly light.

And now her duty to the President was complete.

Emily closed her eyes against the finality of that thought. The grandest chapter of her life: over. This was it. A part of her almost resented Seth for bringing her back here and reopening this still-fresh wound. Her mantra over the last month had been that she’d done the right thing by resigning, but it was beginning to sound more and more like a meaningless jumble of sounds as the regret grew louder.

But there was nothing for it.

There was a knock at the door, and Emily reluctantly got up to answer. She really hoped it wasn’t Seth; because any attempts at trying to make her feel better right now would probably end with her sobbing. Seth, though, wouldn’t be coming with an escort, she realised as she saw the flickering of blue and red lights through the glass panelling around her door. If it were possible, her heart sank lower than it already was. Oh, this was gonna hurt.

She opened the door and gave Mike a weak smile. His was a lot warmer as he said: “Ma’am, we need to check the premises.” By the time Mike had done his sweep and was ushering Tom through the doorway, she felt she had managed to fashion her smile into something a little more sturdy.

The Presidency had done a lot for Tom. Already, he looked utterly out of place in her home. “Sorry about the...you know,” he said awkwardly, gesturing towards where Mike was standing guard outside.

Emily led him out of the entrance. “it’s okay. Makes me feel important.”

Tom’s lips twitched at that. He gazed keenly at her, as if he hadn’t been having dinner with her just a couple of hours ago. He eyed the table where her mug was still steaming. “May I—?”

“Of course.” Emily joined him, and took a sip of tea for fortification. “So, Iowa tomorrow,” she prompted, wondering if the next day’s rally had anything to do with why he was here.

Tom nodded gravely. “How do you think it’ll go?”

Finally, Emily’s smile felt genuine. “Well, you’re a man of the people.”

Tom blinked with far-away eyes. “Some of the people.” Emily didn’t know what to make of the note of uncertainty in his voice, and she abruptly felt the need to hold her breath. “I’ll get to the point,” Tom continued. “I came here because I wanted to tell you that in the month since you’ve been gone, something’s been off. With me. My compass has been off. And I would like you to come back to the White House.”

Emily slowly filtered through those words, making sure she’d heard him correctly. She was even more uncertain when he added: “Emily, I need you to keep me honest.” That word, _honest_ , smarted like a brushed nerve. In a terrible way, Emily wanted to laugh. Everything from before she’d left played out through her mind like a confession tape: forcing a subordinate to illegally mine a journalist’s phone and compromising the President, leaking that illegally obtained story to the press and compromising the President, confronting the Chief of Justice and _compromising the President._

Emily shook her head slowly. “Sir, I left because—“

“I know. Emily,” Tom said resolutely, and Emily’s protest fell silent. The President paused a moment, mulling over words that had Emily’s heart in her throat. “I think, coming off my investigation and...Alex’s death, you had—we all had—lost focus, and I know you felt like you had to take a step back, that you’d stopped being able to see the bigger picture. But maybe you just have to look at it from another angle.”

 _Another angle_. Emily wanted to grab the President’s words with both hands and run with them, away from Florida and her endless regrets and back to D.C and what she loved. But hesitation must have still been showing on her face, because Tom pushed on, voice low and urgent. “I thought about what you said at dinner, and you’re right—I need to be serving the people. And we have that chance. We have a historic opportunity here. I’m beholden to no-one; not to any party. We can do things they can’t. And you can be a part of that—not as Chief of Staff, but as the Em I know, who’s been by my side since the beginning.”

The image Tom conjured up was so vivid that Emily could almost taste it. This was her chance to get back to where she’d started. She could continue wallowing in regret after regret, or she could choose another angle: she could reshape the story. She could be who she wanted to be again.

Tom was wide eyed with hopefulness. “So, what do you think?”

Emily took a deep breath. “Not the West Wing,” she said before she could overthink things and change her mind. The West Wing held too many negative memories, and Mars Harper. It would only hold her back. “But...there’s a lot that needs to be done on the campaign team.”

Tom’s face lit up. “So that’s a yes?”

Emily could hardly believe it herself as she spoke: “I serve at the pleasure of the President.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, I’ve changed the order of events around slightly. This is both to make my particular version of events make more sense and to also fix the mess that was the season 3 timeline, because apparently these writers don’t understand the concept of the linear passage of time.


	3. #firsthurdle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom’s first major campaign rally arrives, but when inevitable complications arise, Seth’s familiar new recruit has to help save the day. Meanwhile, Hannah faces the music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’M BACK! So sorry this took so long to post, I’ve been swamped with exams and they just sucked away any time and energy I had to write. But, without further ado, chapter 3:

**May 31st, 2018**

Today was a big day; the biggest day of the campaign so far, actually. Today was Iowa day, and Seth was sending up prayers that there wouldn’t be anything to fuck it up. And by anything, of course, Seth meant himself. Well, actually, that’s what Mars meant, but the guy made a compelling argument even without words. Seth had never before met someone who could articulate the phrase “One more screw up and the closest you’ll get to government again is when you’re filing for unemployment benefits” with just a glare.

So, yeah, Seth desperately wanted the day to go well.

First on the list of getting shit done smoothly was finding someone to cover their online communication. The office where all the computer fiends worked was weirdly empty, so Seth’s gaze gravitated to the one occupied desk, where a young, strangely familiar looking woman was fixated on her screen. Seth blinked—he had a vague recognition of most of the staff here, given that he and Online Engagement tended to cross paths a lot, but he could swear he actually knew this girl. In a second, it clicked; this was Lyor’s old PA. Tricia...Sampson? Simmons?

Seth internally sighed in relief as he approached her desk. He’d never much interacted with Lyor’s old assistant, but she was coming back to him now: she was always either trailing behind Lyor or Kendra, lending a hand, running an errand. The fact that she hadn’t been fired within a week went one thing: she must be frighteningly competent.

“I remember you!” Seth greeted, and Tricia-Something-Or-Other startled. “You worked for Lyor.”

“Mr Wright!” She leapt to her feet, nearly knocking her chair over in her hurry. “Hi, yeah, Tricia Sims. I transferred here a couple of months back. I work for the Director of Online Engagement now.” She frowned, consternation slowly creeping across her face. “But she hasn’t shown up the last couple of days, so I guess....I’m the Director of Online Engagement?”

Seth snorted internally. He was well versed with that particular look of being absolutely overwhelmed. Tricia was beginning to remind him of himself when he’d first started working at the White House—which...probably wasn’t a good thing.

“Lyor won’t stop bitching about you leaving. It’s his way of saying he misses you.”

That won a surprised little smile from her. “Huh. That’s...kind of sweet, actually.”

“Yeah, not when you’re the one being bitched at.” Seth checked his watch; they needed to be on Air Force One in an hour. “Hey, I need someone to come along on the President’s Iowa trip, handle online messaging. Can you do that?”

Tricia hesitated only a second, which Seth took as a good sign. “Uh...Yeah. Yes.”

“Great.” Seth was fully reabsorbed in his phone at this point, scowling at the message their Iowa Communications Liaison had sent him ten minutes ago: _Looks like there may be an issue. Will send more details._ He had not sent more details. Clearly, today was off to a great start.

He took three steps towards the door before realising that Tricia wasn’t following. He turned with a raised eyebrow. Tricia seemed to have only just realised that this was a time sensitive sort of request, and she was now flailing around, grabbing her jacket, her laptop, her bag. Seth crossed and uncrossed his arms; anxious to leave.

“You’re on Twitter, right?” Tricia asked as she scrambled around to meet him.

Seth checked his watch again. “Bane of my existence.”

Tricia was nodding profusely. “Maybe you saw this hashtag I created a couple of days ago. ‘The System Is Broken,’ it’s called.” She pulled her phone out, eyes alight and eager. “I can show you—“

Seth was already walking again. “Let’s...just keep it moving.”

Tricia deflated a little, following behind with close footsteps. Seth had half a mind to feel bad for curbing the kid’s enthusiasm, but with another look at his watch he decided to schedule in that guilt session for the next day instead, because he did not have time right now.

 

* * *

 

Hannah stepped out the doors of the stuffy FBI headquarters and into the gentle midday sun and fresh air of the street outside. They were the hardest few steps she’d ever taken.

This was it. After years of hard work, after defying her father and pursuing her dreams of defending her country, after countless investigations, after fighting for so much and losing even more, this was it; Hannah Wells was no longer in the employ of the FBI.

She wasn’t sure what pissed her off more: the fact that she’d been terminated despite giving everything she had and more into protecting this country and succeeding, or the way that the Director and the Deputy-Director and all the other suits seemed so glad to be rid of her. It wasn’t as if they’d all probably be dead or out of a job if it weren’t for her. Goddamn bastards. Didn’t even give her a chance to say goodbye. Not that Hannah really cared about that—there was only one person from that place she wanted to speak to.

Her call was picked up in a second, which had Hannah smiling despite herself. “Hey, Chuck.”

“Hey.” Chuck sounded uncharacteristically subdued. “Hearing over?”

Hannah toyed that tone of his in her head. Chuck, as much of a whiz-kid he could be, was no actor, at least when it came to her. “...You already know how it went, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question, and she didn’t get an answer; just a dead silence. Hannah sighed. At least this meant she didn’t have to break the news herself.

Chuck cleared his throat anxiously, a sound that instantly had her on high alert. “Hannah,” he began hesitantly, “I was called in as well.”

Hannah’s hackles were raised in an instant. “They didn’t—“

“No, no,” Chuck cut in. “I’ve still got my job, it’s just...” he let out a nervous hiccup of a laugh. “That’s the thing. My job carries certain conditions now. Number one being...ceasing contact with you.”

The FBI just couldn’t keep its nose out, could it? She couldn’t say she was surprised, really; not with the amount of legally dubious schemes she’d roped Chuck into, but still, goddamnit. “Of course,” she sighed.

“Hannah,” Chuck said, sounding like the very words pained him, “...I can’t...”

This day had already been a lesson in disillusionment, but it still hadn’t prepared Hannah for the drowning swell of devastation that rose up with just those three simple words. It was stupid of her, selfish in the way she hated to admit to being, but even when Chuck had told her she’d been blacklisted for him she’d assumed with simple surety that he wasn’t actually going to listen. That after losing almost everything, she’d at least still have him to hold onto. But of course—Chuck had his own life, separate from Hannah’s messes. He needed to prioritise that. Of course. Of course.

“Yeah,” Hannah said, almost choking on it. “Yeah, I get it.”

Chuck’s voice was sodden with misery. “What are you gonna do?”

“Bye, Chuck,” Hannah said in a single breath. She hung up. She tipped her head back to the sky, letting out a long exhale through her nose. This was fine. She could handle this. She’d lost damn near everyone else in her life; what was one more?

Chuck had posed a good question, though—what was she going to do now? No more Chuck, no more FBI, no more Amy, who’d elected to try living with some old family friends in Ohio. No more—her mind skipped quickly over Damien, she didn’t need that right now. But it was hard to escape; that same dead-drop emptiness that filled her after Damien died, like the kind when you reach for your gun and realise it’s no longer in your holster, was filling her now. Rescuing Amy had been a good enough bandaid for it, and then the days leading up to her hearing had been filled with exploring possible links between Emily Rhodes and the Russians. But now there was nothing between her and that empty. Even the street was bare.

“Miss Wells?”

Alright, maybe not completely bare. Hannah turned to warily appraise the source of that strange voice. There was a woman approaching her with the certain step of someone who’d been planning this run-in. Tall, platinum blonde, shrewd eyes. Hannah put her guard up and resolved to keep it there.

“Do I know you?”

“You,” the woman said coolly, “do not. But I know you.” Those keen eyes shifted to the entrance to the FBI headquarters. “I’m assuming the hearing resulted in termination.”

Hannah’s lips quirked joylessly. Whoever this was, she should leave well enough alone. “Well, I’m leaving now.” She turned on her heel.

“I can tell you about that video.”

Those words sliced through the air like a bullet, hitting Hannah dead-centre. She swivelled back around, eyes narrowed. “How do you know about the video?”

“Because we shot it.” Hannah froze at that, and the mystery woman gave her a cryptic smile in response. “How’d you like to come work for the CIA?”

 

* * *

 

Tricia’s face as they stood on the tarmac waiting to board Airforce One was truly something to behold. Seth smiled into his fist at her hanging jaw, letting her have her giddy moment. He knew all too well how that felt. At least Tricia wasn’t taking selfies like a certain someone.

“Drink it in,” he muttered in her ear. Tricia’s grin somehow grew wider.

“Seth!” They both turned at the sound of Lyor’s voice, and Tricia let out a little squeak of surprise. Lyor was coming at them with his nose jammed in his phone, mouth fixed in a hard line of disapproval. “I’m getting word there’s a glitch at this event. Do you—?” Finally, he looked up, blinking owlishly at Seth’s companion. “Tricia?”

“Mr Boone!” Tricia stumbled out of her startled stun, reaching out to shake her old boss’ hand. “I...didn’t realise _you_ were the President’s new campaign manager, that’s...amazing!” Lyor grinned as he returned the handshake.

“Tricia’s gonna be helping me out, handling digital communication,” Seth said. Lyor nodded approvingly.

“At least something’s going well today, then,” he said, and Tricia ducked her head with a shy, pleased smile. He beckoned Seth over, waving his phone in his face. “A glitch is exactly what we don’t need.”

“Yeah, I heard about that too, and no, I don’t know any more than you,” Seth sighed. His sigh turned into a scowl as he peered across the tarmac. There was the President, and in front of him, looking repulsively smug as usual, was his number one rival. “Looks like we’ve got another problem,” Seth muttered. “Ugh, Moss.”

Lyor made a distracted noise of agreement. Seth turned, curious at the lack of a scathing barb at the sight of their opponent, and saw Lyor’s gaze fixed instead on the man hovering beside Moss. It was his own campaign manager. From what Seth had heard, the guy was exactly the kind of person you’d expect Moss to pick—scummy, underhanded, and with a healthy dose of racism to boot. Yeah, Moss sure knew how to play to his demographic. The look Lyor was giving him, though, was more than just obligatory disdain. It reminded Seth of the way he’d stared down Greg Bowen at the summit meeting in Camp David. Maybe there was some history there as well.

History, Seth decided as the President brushed past Moss and headed to board, that he’d have to dig into another day. He jerked his head at Tricia, who got the hint, and he tapped Lyor’s elbow, snapping him out of his reverie.

“Come on,” he said grimly. “It’s showtime.”

Showtime, as it turned out, meant Seth standing an hour later in a virtually empty room, helplessly watching chairs get stacked away. Looked like they’d found their glitch. Seth had left Tricia outside, which meant he only had Lyor to turn to in the face of the President’s stormy expression.

“How do you want to go about explaining this to him?” Seth muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

A vein in Lyor’s temple was throbbing. “You can handle it. I’ve got calls to make.”

Seth glared incredulously. “You’re the campaign manager! Manage!”

“And you work in Communications. _Communicate_.”

Fuck.

Seth braced himself and approached Tom. “So...” he began. “Apparently, and this is unsubstantiated, but Moss’s campaign robocalled all our confirmed attendees telling them the event had been cancelled. Hence, the meagre turnout.”

Fucking Moss. Seth had seen some dirty politics in his time, but this particularly stung. Probably because it was coming from someone who the President had once trusted. Hell, Seth had kind of liked the guy once upon a time. Politics, it went to show, always brought out the worst in people; never the best. The President’s face was sour, and Seth tried to hurry on with a tone of reassurance. “We have a field team out to try to fill seats.” The tone did not work at all. Seth glanced defeatedly around the barren room. “Still want to go through with this?”

Tom scoffed. “Absolutely not. Buy their lunches. Fix this.”

Seth nodded. “Fixing this’ was easier said than done, but they needed to salvage this event somehow. He reached for his phone and started dialling numbers—he had some calls of his own to make now. As Press Secretary, he did have fingers in a fair few pies, and hopefully one of them would turn up something.

So far, the pies weren’t turning up much at all. “...Yeah, I know it’s short notice, but it’s ‘rabbit out of the hat’ time,” Seth said into the phone, wandering outside more in the hope that it would ease his headache than anything else. “I need you to look at the entire caucus event calendar, see if there’s something we can piggyback on.” He hung up unceremoniously, feeling defeated. A few feet away, Tricia—god, Seth had almost forgotten Tricia was out here—hovered. She had her tablet clutched to her chest, and the moment she saw Seth’s phone go into his pocket, she sped over.

“Uh, do you remember the hashtag I told you about before we left?” she asked, shifting unsurely on her feet. Seth stared for a few seconds, trying to figure what the hell this had to do with anything.

“I hope it doesn’t hurt your feelings to say that I do not,” he said flatly, mind already floating back to who else he could call.

Tricia nodded hurriedly, clearly nervous but powering through. “Okay, after the State of the Union I put this hashtag out, ‘The System Is Broken.’ You know what trending is?”

“I know what trending is.”

“It’s generating a tonne of traffic,” Tricia’s eyes were lit up as she stared down at her tablet, reverent wonder drowning out the hesitation that had been in her voice before. She extended the tablet, and Seth couldn’t help but look. The screen was abuzz; tweet after tweet pouring in, and videos popping up everywhere. Whoever these people were, there were a lot of them. “People are really responding to what the President said,” Tricia continued eagerly. “They’re posting videos, venting about broke shit—uh, broken politics—“

Seth pulled the tablet from her hands, eyes tracking the hashtags as they appeared. “These videos, they’re all coming from one specific event.”

One event. With a mass of politically minded people. Holy shit. A plan was unfurling in his brain, one just last-minute and crazy that it just might work.

“Yeah, it’s an abandoned mall. It’s a protest. I guess they planned it to counter-programme the caucuses—hey! Where are you going with my tablet?”

Seth rushed back inside, Tricia’s foisted tablet under his arm as he called back to her: “I gotta talk to the President.”

 

* * *

 

On the perimeter of the protest crowd, the air buzzed. With the mass of videos being posted from the mall, Seth had known there’d be a large crowd, but seeing it in person was something else. A sea of young faces, screaming for someone who would give them change. This was...perfect. Lyor seemed to think so, anyway. He and Seth shared a little grin as they approached the speaking platform. The President, however, staring down at his notes on his phone, seemed a bit more hesitant.

“I’m not sure about this,” Tom muttered, staring dubiously out at the crowd. “What am I supposed to do, the speech?”

Lyor winced, and Seth couldn’t blame him. The President’s speech was a cracker, but it was definitely playing to a different crowd. Seth shrugged. “Well, just feel it out when you get up there. Wing it.” Yep, definitely his most sound advice thus far in his career.

The President stared. “Wing It?” Seth shrugged again. “That’s an interesting communications strategy, Seth.”

There was no more time for debate; the crowd was making that clear. One of the spokespersons for the protest was trying to prepare them for a speaker from D.C, and they were nearly being booed off the stage for their efforts. If the President wanted anyone to hear him speak today, he was going to have to go out there in the next ten seconds, or he’d lose them. The President’s grimace showed that he knew it as well. With an expert tug, he undid his tie, shrugging off his jacket as well and handing them both over to Mike. He turned to Seth and Lyor with a wry smile.

“Excuse me, I’m gonna wing it.”

With that he was gone, bounding onto the stage with all the confidence of a man who’d been preparing for this moment for a week and not fifteen minutes. Seth watched with bated breath as he dove in, slowly warming the crowd to him with every line. He was winging it expertly. Huh, maybe people should take Seth’s advice more often.

Lyor was nodding approvingly, eyes gleaming as he tracked the slowly brightening faces of the protesters. From behind them, Tricia was watching the whole scene unfold with a face of wonder. She’d spent her whole D.C career, Seth realised, either behind a desk or trapped in the West Wing. This was the first time she got to see the real magic of politics in real time, and she’d had a hand in making it happen.

“Oh, this is way better than what his other speech would’ve been,” she breathed.

Lyor nodded. “He’s nailing it.”

The crowd was completely on the President’s side now, their chatter and cheer rising to a deafening climax that almost drowned out his voice. The noise was almost one long scream by now, and the hairs on the back of Seth’s neck stood on end as it washed over him. The sound touched a month-old memory in the back of his mind, that of the screams in Taurasi as the tsunami hit, and it set a tension in his spine that told him he should be running. But Seth kept his eyes fixed on the President, kept his ears trained on his voice. This was different, this was a victory. This was why he loved this job.

The crowd’s cheers soared, and Seth’s heart soared with them.

 

* * *

 

The CIA, Hannah reflected as she settled into a darkened office, truly lived up to their penchant for secrecy. So far, she’d learned that the woman who’d approached her and was now sitting on the other side of this desk was named Dianne Lewis, and that was exactly it. Even the office itself gave nothing away except, cloaked in twilight shadows as it was, a further sense of mystery. Mysterious strangers, clandestine meeting places—the CIA seemed to have a knack for the dramatic that the FBI never did. Hannah approved.

Dianne seemed to sense this approval; she smiled coolly. “I meant to ask, whatever happened to Agent Rennett’s daughter, the girl you brought back from London?” she asked casually, her tone giving away nothing of what her question revealed: this woman knew a lot.

Alright, Hannah could respect a power play. “She’s with family friends,” she answered just as vaguely. No doubt, the CIA already knew that, just as they likely knew that Amy had insisted on keeping in semi-regular contact which amounted to her showing up at Hannah’s apartment whenever she felt bored. No need to elaborate, then. “So, you were surveilling me too.”

Dianne’s eyes glinted. “It’s what we do.”

“And why were you tailing Emily?” Hannah stayed poised, but inside she was thrumming with anticipation. Finally, she would get answers, satisfaction, anything at all. “Did you suspect her of something?”

“No,” Dianne said with flat amusement, and disappointed frustration fizzled in Hannah’s chest. “I’d be very surprised if Miss Rhodes was a traitor to her country.”

Hannah didn’t think Dianne was giving Emily enough credit. She didn’t know the woman well, but she’d tracked her well enough to appreciate how sneaky she could be. No, there had to be more to this. “Then what was in the envelope? She mentioned something about a back channel with Russia, but that’s all I could get out of her.”

“The US and Russia occasionally share information about rogue scientists, especially ones who have access to classified weapons programs.”

Hannah blinked, feeling deflated. “So, this is about nuclear technology.”

“It can be. But we’re on to something more insidious now. Bioterror.” Hannah tensed, mind already spiderwebbing with implications. This sounded big. This sounded like something she wanted to be a part of. She nearly shivered with anticipation when Dianne said: “It’s what I want you to work on.”

Already, Hannah could feel the emptiness fading. This wasn’t just something she wanted to be a part of; this was something she needed. An investigation, a mission, a purpose. Finally, she allowed herself a sliver of a smile. “Where are you sending me?”

 

* * *

 

After that roller coaster of a day, Seth was glad to have his feet back on the reassuring ground of the White House. What with how well the protest speech ended up going, their return felt more like a victory march—Seth was still riding high, and he could tell everyone else was feeling the same. He stood off to the side with Tricia in the cool evening air, making hasty plans with Lyor on his phone as the President discussed moving forward with his Chief of Staff. Seth’s heart dropped, though, when he glanced up to see the President taking off and Mars instead making a beeline straight for him.

 _Please, please, please_ , Seth prayed internally. _Don’t be an asshole for one night—_

“I heard you came up with the whole mall idea.”

Seth was taken aback. Mars raised an impatient eyebrow and Seth glanced awkwardly at Tricia, who was doing her best to look anywhere but at them. “W-Well, it was sort of—“

“I asked for a new strategy. It seems I got one,” Mars said, almost pleasantly, and Seth’s mouth snapped shut in shock. That was the closest to approval he could hope to get, and he wasn’t going to ruin it by running his mouth, so he just nodded in silent thanks. Mars smiled cryptically, turning, and Seth let out a breath.

“Oh, almost forgot to mention,” Mars said, swinging back around, and Seth tensed so quickly it hurt. “You’re the new Communications Director. So, I guess, report to yourself.” With a half shrug and that same smirk, Mars left, this time for good, leaving a shell-shocked Seth in his wake.

 _Communications Director_. That was...never something Seth had even considered, especially not with Mars Harper at the gate. The joy of a promotion was slowly sinking in amongst the residual high of the day’s success and the sheer relief of not being fired, and it was hitting him in an overwhelming wave. Alright, Seth definitely needed a drink to ride this one out.

“Uhhhhh.” He turned to Tricia, who was still looking impossibly awkward. “I...did not expect that to happen.” He glanced down as his phone buzzed: Lyor had sent a thumbs up to his previous message asking if he wanted to meet up. Now they’d really have something to talk about tonight. “So, Lyor and I are grabbing a drink. You want in?”

Tricia smiled coyly. “Celebratory drinks?”

Seth huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, I guess so. Come on.”

They made their way to Seth’s usual haunt, settling in to wait for Lyor who was, predictably, running late. The guy ran on his own time. That, of course, left Seth the gargantuan task of getting Tricia to loosen up a little. She’d accepted the offer of drinks graciously, but now they were here she didn’t seem to know quite what to do with herself; stiff sitting next to him at the bar, as if now that they were off the clock she thought she had to be even more professional. Seth got it; she probably hadn’t even considered mixing with senior staff like this before. In her position, he’d be terrified too.

If there was one thing he prided himself on, though, it was getting people to feel at ease. “Man. The last few days I’ve been thinking I’m gonna be fired, and I end today getting promoted,” he said, shooting her an easy smile.

“Mm.” She nodded vigorously, and they settled back into awkward silence for another few seconds before she spoke up. “I just can’t believe I ended the day as the actual Director of Online Engagement.”

She said it so casually, staring straight ahead, that Seth nearly missed the trace of irony in her voice. He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nice try, Tricia.”

Her lips twitched. “Worth a shot.”

Seth gave her a sidelong gaze. Bringing her along today, he’d had the confidence that she’d at least be able to handle herself, but he’d never have predicted that Tricia would have essentially saved their asses out there with that hashtag. It was great work; work that, from what he could guess, was probably being passed over where she was. Today more than anything proved that she needed to be back where the action was happening.

“Hey, tomorrow though, I want you to pack up your desk at the EEOB and head back to the West Wing. You work for me now.”

Tricia’s eyes shot wide, a proper grin finally gracing her face, but before she could say anything she was interrupted by Lyor dropping down beside Seth. Seth turned cheerily to his friend, who looked only mildly surprised by Tricia’s unexpected presence. More than anything he just looked exhausted.

Seth waved a flourishing hand Tricia’s way. “Hey, say hello to my first hire as Communications Director.”

Lyor stared for a long moment, eyebrows lifting imperceptibly as he processed all the unexpected news packed in that statement, but he settled on just grumbling. “You’ve done nothing but wound me today.”

Wow. “What?” Seth knew Lyor would be a little put out by Seth claiming us favourite ex-PA, but the guy looked genuinely bothered. “Oh, come on. Wrong attitude, man.”

Lyor gave him a long suffering look. “I just found out. Emily’s going to be working here again. _On the campaign team_.”

Oh. “Oh.” Seth...hadn’t expected that, not in a million years. He felt a thrill of foreboding deep in his gut—as much as he’d enthused about Emily coming back for a visit, Seth knew as well as anybody about the blowback they could get from actually rehiring her. All they could do now was pray that Em wouldn’t fuck this up.

Seth tried to remind himself that she’d learnt her lesson. She was the same old Em again.

Or, at least, she better be. For everyone’s sakes.

“I’m very annoyed with you right now,” Lyor declared. Seth would apologise, but his friend’s tone was lighter now. He knew he would probably get hell for this for the next week, but at least for tonight Lyor had the good grace to leave it be. They were celebrating, after all.

In that spirit, Seth leaned back into the comfortable routine of their traded barbs. “But do you think you’ll get through it?” he asked dryly.

“Unclear.”

“Whatever, man. You still came.” Seth laughed, shooting a grin at his friend, sparkling and genuine. Lyor’s annoyance aside, this was a couple of days overdue. “Told you I’d buy you that drink,” he said, voice dropping a fraction.

Lyor inclined his head, eyes crinkling. “Congratulations on the promotion, by the way,” he murmured. “I was almost certain Mars was going to fire you.”

“Yeah, so was I.” Abruptly, Seth realised that they’d abandoned Tricia on the sidelines of their conversation, and he leaned back, clearing his throat. “Alright, guess we all have promotions to celebrate. I’m buying you both a drink.” He waggled his eyebrows at Tricia. “Then you can tell me who’s the better boss already.”

Tricia had a sudden and convenient coughing fit, and Seth smirked. Tonight, against all odds, was going to be a good night.

 

* * *

 

Seth jerked awake to the pressure of lost breath in his chest. Soaked in sweat, he kicked his suddenly too-constricting sheets to a tangle at his feet, turning to blink resentfully at his alarm clock. Only three hours since he’d gotten back from the bar and crashed. _Christ_. He slumped back against his pillows and clapped a hand over his mouth, letting his strained breathing calm as it whistled through his fingers. He stared at the dark ceiling, trying to be mindless, willing his thoughts to float in the dark shadows, away from the still razor sharp memory of his dream. _The crowd at the rally, cheers rising like a wave, morphing to screams, and suddenly it’s too hot and he’s racing up to a rooftop, wailing children like weights in his arms and he watches the wave crash through buildings like LEGO with all the people below, and they’re screaming, screaming—_

Seth had thought the nightmares were getting better. Of course, on the one night where things seemed to be looking up, they decided to get worse.

It must have been the rally. Noisy crowds, he’d noticed, seemed to be a trigger. He could appreciate the irony in an infuriating sort of way. Fear of loud masses—a great quality for any Communications Director. Thank god Mars didn’t know. Seth had managed to keep a handle on things at work—on the way panic could rise so easily in his throat now, and how he jumped at loud noises. It was just the nights that really had him. Seth tried to close his eyes against the thumping of his heart, but gave up after ten seconds. Sighing, he reached for his phone.

He hadn’t wanted to make a habit of this, Seth thought, scrolling through his contacts until he found Lyor and feeling unbearably stupid as he did so. He’d wanted it to be a one time thing, the first time it happened. But he couldn’t afford another sleepless night, and after these nightmares this was the only thing that worked to calm his heart back down, so Seth found himself already tapping at the keys.

_you awake?_

The reply came seconds later in the form of a phone call buzzing in his hand. Seth smiled as Lyor’s name appeared on the screen, the warmth spreading through his chest at the instant response almost swallowing the embarrassment completely. He answered. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Lyor replied casually. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He never did. They both always knew why the other was calling, and they made a point to never talk about it. It was a small comfort nestled within the greater comfort of simply hearing his voice. Nights like these, Seth just needed to talk to someone who understood the waking fear of that voice being lost forever.

“I’m not keeping you up, am I?”

“Wasn’t planning on sleeping,” came Lyor’s easy answer. Seth wanted to scold him for not getting enough rest, but he realised that would be fairly redundant coming from himself. Instead, he stared up at the shadows on the ceiling. He let his mind float.

“Hey, you know that phrase ‘in the barrel?’ he asked. “The one Mars is always using. You know where that comes from?”

Lyor hummed thoughtfully. “Oh, that’s obscure. I’ve heard a few theories, one of which, I think, involves some kind of medieval genital torture.”

Seth smiled, already feeling his breaths slow. “Tell me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Seth is a bit of an anxious bean at this point. Surviving a natural disaster will do that to you, despite what s3 would have you believe...
> 
> Also, fear not! This is far from the last time we see Chuck! I wouldn’t do y’all like that.


	4. #ahousedivided

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyor is ecstatic about his new role as campaign manager, an opportunity he’s always dreamed of. Unfortunately, the presence of Emily leaves him questioning things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, sorry for this taking so long. I thought this chapter would be quick work, but it turned out to be a challenge (Lyor’s a tricky one to write.) Next chapter though—and I say this with much trepidation—should be out sooner.

**June 2nd, 2018**

Lyor didn’t want to say that he’d dreamed of this moment, because those kinds of twee platitudes made him want to bash his head against a wall, but as he looked out on the buzzing-busy quarters of the campaign office, he couldn’t deny the thrill that wrapped its way through him. This was the aspiration of all campaigners with any self respect, after all, and one that Lyor had resigned to being a pipe dream for a long time. A tattered reputation had that kind of effect.

Until Tom Kirkman, that was.

Kirkman had taken him on against all the odds, granted him an opportunity that he thought he’d lost forever, and Lyor wasn’t going to take that for granted. He was going to win the President this election. And that meant getting to work.

“Okay gang,” he called cheerily, strolling into the bullpen and waiting for the twittering of office voices to quiet down. His staff looked young, fresh faced, and unrelentingly earnest. Never a good sign. Lyor could always count on someone young and earnest to screw something up by taking initiative without using their brains. At least they had the good sense to pay attention to him now.

“We’ve got to do something very important and extremely stupid: pick our colour.” Lyor was met with a sea of blank faces, and he grimaced. This task, more than anything, was about testing the caliber of his employees, and thus far this was shaping up to be a long election season. “For the electoral map,” he explained, painfully slow. “Republicans are red, Democrats are blue, what are we gonna be?”

Some blonde kid whose smarmy grin was already irritating Lyor to no end piped up, languid and lazy as he leaned back in his chair. “Easy. Third colour of the flag; white.”

Another girl—Hayley?— gave him a flat stare. “We really wanna be the white party?”

Lyor’s lips twitched as blondie floundered for a second. “Black then.”

“Connoting foreboding and malevolence, I don’t think so,” Lyor cut in. This was going slow as molasses, and he was getting twitchy already. “There’s already a green party, grey is ambivalent—“

“Yellow?”

“The colour of cowardice,” Lyor said dryly, with a severe head tilt. “And urine.”

“Purple.”

Lyor’s eyes slipped closed exhaustedly, taking a treasured moment to savour these last few unburdened seconds before he whipped around to meet with the sight of Emily making her entrance. This was, he realised, the first time he’d actually laid eyes on her in over a month. She was gone by the time he’d stepped off the plane from Taurasi, after all, and once Kendra had briefed him of the details of her resignation, he’d been content to let her take off to Florida without any sort of goodbye. Seth, he remembered, had gone to see her as soon as he found out she’d quit. Lyor had elected to get blind drunk instead.

He wasn’t sure what he expected from her now—he’d hoped that she’d have the decency to look at least a little sheepish, and perhaps have an apology at the ready. But of course not. Emily was beaming as she walked in, with all the confidence in the world.

“Already used to symbolise neither party,” she continued. Lyor wasn’t sure what irritated him more; her presence, or the fact that he hadn’t thought of purple himself.

“Emily,” he greeted, impressively mildly. “Reporting for duty, I presume.”

She smiled wryly. It was a familiar look, the one she whipped out when they were sharing a private joke. For a jolting second, its return sparked bright fondness. Then, grating irritation returned. “Judging by the looks of mild exasperation on everyone’s face I assume I’m in the right place.”

“Mm.” Lyor wasn’t interested in workplace banter. Not now, and not with her. “You’re late.” Emily’s smile fractured a sliver. Lyor appreciated it deeply. “Let’s talk in my office.”

Emily nodded, having the decency to look a smidge subdued. Lyor gestured towards his office—hard to miss, considering it was essentially a giant glass cube in the middle of the bullpen, and seriously, who made the design plans here?—and called over his shoulder. “Ah, keep thinking, guys.”

They wouldn’t come up with anything, but still, Lyor had read somewhere that it was important to give children something to focus on to keep them well behaved.

“So,” Emily drawled, drifting slowly around the room as Lyor strode to the comforting reinforcement of his desk. “Campaign manager, huh? Pretty swanky. You’re really owning the room out there.” Her smile was warm.

Lyor ignored it. “I’d like to set some ground rules before moving forward.”

The smile fell away. “...Okay.”

“You work for me now.” Lyor didn’t even look at her. He was rearranging his desk as he spoke; fiddling with pens, shifting his computer screen, anything to keep his hands moving, to channel the agitation that his mind had spun into upon seeing her, thinking about everything that could go wrong. “That means you follow my lead. I don’t want you going renegade; no backroom deals without my stamp of approval, and definitely nothing that’s going to make the press dig up any of your less than legal history.”

Finally, he looked up, fixing her with an unforgiving stare. “You’re going to keep your head down.”

Any of the cheer Emily had held onto since being called into his office was wiped away. Finally, she seemed to appreciate the shift in the atmosphere between them, and she sunk down onto Lyor’s plush red couch looking vaguely ill. Lyor hoped she wouldn’t add to her own inconvenience by throwing up on his carpet.

“Wow.” Voice all soft stiffness, as if she had the gall to be offended. “I mean I wasn’t expecting a march of honour at my return, but this is...” she huffed, shaking her downcast head.

At this point, Lyor would actually rather be outside listening to the office twerps theorise colours than holding Emily’s hand as the reality of consequences knocked her off her feet. “I’m here to win this election, Emily, and I’d say your presence is fairly antithetical to that goal.”

“So, what, you don’t trust me?”

Lyor didn’t even have to think. “Not particularly, no.”

Once bitten, twice shy. Lyor had always liked that phrase. He appreciated the implication that wrongs could be tallied up to equal some greater amount of distrust he was entitled to. And using that equation, Lyor would say he was now entitled to a fair bit. First his father, who’d given him a valuable lesson in understanding that basic decency couldn’t be expected from anyone, not even blood. Greg Bowen had driven that point home when he’d abandoned their shared campaign, dumped him, and began circulating rumours calculated to torpedo his career all within a week. Oh yes, Lyor had been bitten, enough times now to remember the feeling with stabbing ease. So, when he found out that his friend had been hiding almost a year’s worth of idiotically self-aggrandising scheming from him, when he returned home from a near death experience to find out that she’d simply bailed and left him to clean up her latest mess—well, Lyor was more than happy to cash in on his stockpiled distrust.

Lyor could have moved on, in a sense. His father was long dead and Greg was no doubt learning what prison made of shrimpy British boys, and so he’d managed to push his resentment of them down into a droning background noise. The scars were still there, but they’d crusted over. But Emily, she was here, sitting in his office and expecting to be accepted unthinkingly into his campaign staff and back into his good books. Now, those scars were beginning to burn.

He was still fidgeting at his desk, but Emily was statuesque, face a careful, blank granite as she stared down at her tightly clasped hands. When she spoke, even her voice was full of stone. “You know, I stuck out my neck out to get you here in the first place,” she said, and Lyor stilled. “I vouched for you even when nobody else wanted to touch you. Because we’re old friends. I guess I thought I’d be owed the same benefit of the doubt.”

There was an ugly silence. Lyor matched Emily for stillness now, a brittle smile glued to his face as he turned those words over in his head. One thing he admired about Emily—something that too many people disregarded—was that she knew how to aim for the jugular. That comparison, though, he could never respect. Not when she knew the true context of why he’d needed her help getting a job. He hadn’t dug his own grave the way Emily had so diligently done for herself—or if he had, only in the sense that he’d made the amateur mistake of trusting Greg, the same way that he’d trusted Emily enough to confide in her about it—

“That bad reputation was based on slander,” he said coldly. “I’d have thought an old friend would remember that.”

Like an instant chemical reaction, Emily changed. Her face crumpled, as if she’d only just realised what she’d said, lips clamping in a thin, regretful line.

“You’re right,” she muttered. She raked a hand savagely across her face, blinking dolefully up at him. “You’re right, I’m sorry, I just—I really want to get this right, Lyor.” She sucked in a steadying breath, turning to gaze out at the campaign staff on the other side of the glass, all of them at least putting on a show of working hard. Lyor, being more of a solo artist, couldn’t see much appeal in being stuck in the bullpen with them, but the look on Emily’s face was one of absolute longing.

“I’ve done some things I’m...ashamed of,” Emily said, voice vibrating with emotion, and she turned back to Lyor. He shifted uncomfortably; he didn’t know how to respond to this version of Emily, emotional and pliant. “But I promise you they are in the past. Can we just...move forward with a clean slate?” Her hand inched across the surface of the desk, coming to brush against his clenched fists. “Please?”

Lyor stared down at her hand, one finger reaching out to just barely brush his knuckles. The big eyes, the tremble in her voice; it was all perfect, really. The picture of remorse. He wished he knew how genuine it all was. Emily, he’d found, was particularly difficult to discern, especially recently. It could be a particular gift of hers, or—and this was a much more unsettling thought—perhaps Lyor wasn’t as good at reading people as he’d always prided himself on being.

Either way, it wasn’t his place to decide. Emily had clearly gotten back in good with the President, and that meant the decision was effectively out of his hands. She didn’t need to win his sympathy, even if....Lyor sighed internally. Her situation was not remotely comparable to his, but he understood all too well the need for a clean slate. And shame; he understood that too.

If she was going to be back, he reasoned, then it was ideal that she be somewhere he could keep an eye on her. And, when she wasn’t in the midst of self sabotage, Emily could be very intelligent. She could be a valuable asset, Lyor told himself. This was a pragmatic move, really.

He looked back up at Emily. His old friend.

“Purple is good,” he muttered under his breath, nodding to himself as Emily’s face brightened and a soundless sigh of relief shook her whole frame. “We’ll be using purple.”

He pulled away from his desk, making a speedy beeline for the door before Emily could do something like squeeze his hand, or hug him. Not speedy enough though, apparently—Emily snagged his arm as he went by her, forcing him to stop.

“It really is good to see you again, Lyor,” she said, soft and certain. She really sounded like she meant it.

Lyor pulled away. Even walking out, he couldn’t shake the unsettled feeling that fell over him.

The feeling prowled restlessly inside him the whole day, not even simmering down when he took a lunch break with Kendra. Well, to be more accurate: when she marched into his office and damn near dragged him out by his tie, saying something about how she was “pretty sure you haven’t left this building in the last two days.”

That was the inevitable slog that was running a campaign. Lyor was well accustomed to this breakneck sort of work—though never anything with this many sensitive moving parts. And by parts, of course, he meant Emily, and all the ways she could screw this for them. Their whole conversation—the prying, itching worry that he couldn’t get a proper read on her—looped ceaselessly through his mind. Which was how he found himself sitting unwillingly in a cafe with an untouched plate in front of him, scribbling onto a napkin while Kendra threatened to send it smouldering with her glare.

“I don’t know if you know this, Lyor, but when you go to lunch with someone, it’s generally expected that you actually eat said lunch. And possibly even make eye contact with the person you’re eating with.”

Lyor put his pen down long enough to take a pointed bite of his wrap. He stared Kendra down for a surely satisfactory five seconds, and then went back to work. His stomach rumbles, but he ignored it. Stress didn’t take lunch breaks.

“Everything has to be perfect,” he muttered. He was jotting down all the spiralling, half formed thoughts in his head. He needed to get everything down: target states, names of people to schmooze, numbers of rallies to be held. He circled journalists for Emily to stay away from with a vicious flick. “When you’re working with a ticking time bomb, you need to counterbalance all other factors so you don’t get distracted and blow yourself up.”

Kendra gave a little sigh of grim understanding. The pen fell to the table with a clatter, and Lyor massaged the bridge of his nose, staring balefully at her.

“How did she end up working for me? On my campaign?” He shook his head incredulously. “Out of all the positions she could have taken coming back here.”

Kendra chewed her mouthful of panini thoughtfully. “She’s away from anything high clearance. I’d count that as a win.”

“Yeah, and moved directly into the spotlight. Truly genius.” Even if working for Lyor meant he could keep a close eye on her, it was a double edged sword: the press, no doubt, would be keeping an even closer eye. No matter how he spun this for himself in his own head, they didn’t come out winners. As a headache threatened to burn behind his temples, Lyor grasped for a reminder of at least one tiny victory: they’d found their party colour today, hadn’t they? All thanks to Emily.

With that in mind, it was all worth it. Ha.

At least he could discuss this. Kendra was a relief in that way; he knew they’d be, generally speaking, on the same page. And who else could he talk to, anyway? The only other friend he had here anymore was Seth, and bringing up Emily with him was always so tedious, with Seth always jumping to her defence. Or, worse, he’d get quiet and uncomfortable, stirring the murky waters of clearly unresolved issues. Lyor didn’t want to deal with that right now, and he definitely didn’t want to confront the stirring obligation inside him; the twin memories of being friendless and disgraced and desperately needing a helping hand. Right now, he jus wanted to vent.

“She says she wants a clean slate,” he said quietly. “Wants to...do better, I suppose.”

“Do you believe her?”

Lyor’s mind flashed back to Emily’s pleading eyes, her wide smile; those unreadable signals. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly, pulling apart a long strip of Lebanese bread from his wrap morosely. “Does it matter? People are who they are.”

“People can also learn from their mistakes,” Kendra reminded him gently.

Lyor glanced up with a startled, sharpened half-smile. “You sound like Seth.”

She scrunched her face in thought. “Oh, I’m not saying all’s forgiven,” she said slowly, “but I’d like to think that Emily is smart enough to realise how lucky she is to even be getting this second chance. She has to be more careful now, she must know that.”

Lyor shook his head sluggishly, staring off past Kendra’s shoulder into nothing. “She’d been back a day. It took her a _day_ ,” he said, almost wondrously. And he was awestruck in a way—or simply dumbfounded. She’d done things that would have sunk the careers of greater politicians than her. But, of course, Emily had what a lot of people didn’t: a direct line of friendship to the President of the United States. Luck; that was certainly one word for it.

Lyor took a bite of his turkey and swiss, chewing grudgingly. Kendra pointing out its existence had reminded him of the ferocity of his hunger, but now it lay like bitter cardboard in his mouth, almost impossible to swallow down. He fished for some solace. There wasn’t much available. “She did have to spend a month in Florida, granted,” he acceded with a full body shudder. If it had been any longer, he might have been able to muster some true pity. “But I thought she’d earned a little more penance than that. And now I have to welcome her back with open arms and a cushy position.” He scoffed.

Kendra stared at him, wry smile and amusedly raised eyebrows suggesting she was sizing him up in a way he did not appreciate. “This is starting to sound distinctly personal,” she said.

Oh, Lyor didn’t like that tone at all. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“So this has nothing to do with the fact that you were stuck picking the low hanging fruit of sketchy Senate runs for five years after that smear campaign against you while Emily gets away with literal crimes scot free?” Kendra asked airily.

What Lyor had managed of his meal sat cold and heavy in his stomach, churning furiously at those words. As a general rule, Lyor didn’t like thinking about his bastard of an ex-boyfriend at all, and today Greg Bowen been dredged up no less than two times. He liked thinking about the time after Bowen even less: the way colleagues of his, people he’d thought of as friendly acquaintances, had even trusted, had just stood by and let the rumours about Lyor’s foolhardiness circulate—or joined in with blatant glee, all while missed phone calls from potential clients piled up like fallen dominoes. Worse, far worse, were the people who did return his calls, once he got truly desperate. They ran the mill from general scumbags to the legitimately criminal. Those cases had been the few where he’d quit—in politics everything would see the light eventually, and exposed illegal activity would be bad for business, even if there weren’t lines that Lyor wasn’t willing to cross; namely, legal ones. With the amount of morally bankrupt politicians he’d stayed on with, though, it hadn’t done much for his integrity. Lyor had learned a lot about himself in those five years. None of it had been good.

Phil Brunton, now there was a name to remember. Lyor remembered the moment Seth had pointed him out on the tarmac the other day, the way disgust had thickened, congealed in his throat. He and Moss’ new campaign managers had scratched each other’s backs more than a few times over the years. Phil was a valuable connection, no matter how odious his ideas were. So, over drinks, when Phil would shoot him a sly smile and say something about the “globalist elite,” Lyor’s heart would thump against the Magen David hanging under his shirt. And he would say nothing. And at the end of the night, he’d shake his hand with a smile. That was how the game was played.

Phil was the worst of them by far. Not because of who he was or what he believed or what he did—Lyor had met many, too many, who were just as bad. He was the worst because he truly believed that Lyor was just like him. Different in beliefs, of course; even in the days where he couldn’t afford to indulge in blunt candour, Lyor had managed to get his disgust across subtly enough without jeopardising their mutually beneficial relationship—but that was exactly it. Phil had seen what he was willing to ultimately look past. That they were both men willing to do whatever it took to achieve their goals. No matter the price.

Worse still, Lyor reflected heavily, because he was right. People were who they were, and that, as he discovered during those long years, was him. It was what he needed to be to be good at his job. And he was _very_ good at his job. It was what saved him from hypocrisy when it came to Emily. What Lyor did, he did it efficiently, and he did it with enough care that it wouldn’t come back to damage his employer later; that was the key difference between them. Kendra might have the luxury of a moral distaste for Emily, but Lyor just had his professionalism, and he was going to hold onto that.

“This is about me not wanting to play babysitter,” he said tiredly. “I have to be watching her every move now. I can’t have her doing anything that’ll reflect badly on us.”

Kendra watched him for a long moment, looking like she was sizing him up in a different sort of way. Finally, she continued on, but her teasing tone had softened out. “Okay, think of it this way; with her there, you get to keep an eye on her. You love keeping eyes on things. Trust me, keeping Emily on the campaign is the best thing for everyone after what happened.” She sighed and skulled the rest of her coffee. “I don’t even know why we were surprised,” she muttered. “She was too young to be Chief of Staff, too young to handle that kind of pressure. How did that even happen?”

“The President has his favourites,” Lyor said wanly.

Kendra drummed her fingers on the table. “It’s not just her though. The whole West Wing’s turning millennial, I swear. I appreciate the importance of young people in politics, but—I mean, have you seen Aaron’s cousin? Nadia? Are we certain she’s actually out of college? And yet she’s somehow swinging more face time with Mars than I am.” She scowled.

Lyor quite liked Nadia, actually, from the few times he’d talked with her. A bit annoying, but with a quick mind and a knack for taking initiative. He could see the family resemblance—she was what Aaron could have been like had he only grown a personality. More than anything though, she reminded him of Tricia. At the thought of his—well, now Seth’s protege—and the memory of her career-saving little hashtag, Lyor felt a bubble of pride. Between her and Nadia, young minds had to be good for something. Such as, apparently, making Kendra jealous.

A smiled curled his lips. “This is starting to sound distinctly personal.”

Kendra threw him an unimpressed look. “You know what?” she said flatly, “we’re talking about your problems right now.” She shook her head. “You can keep Emily under control, Lyor. It’s what you’re good at.”

Yes. Yes it was. Lyor fought the urge to slump his head against the table. Instead, there was another battle that had to be fought today. He shot Kendra a sly glance.

“Speaking of, I need you to do that 3 o’clock interview with Trey on Friday.”

The horror that morphed her face was instant; Lyor had to bite down on a smirk.

“You’re joking.” At his innocently blank expression, she threw her hands up incredulously. “Need I remind you that I’m White House Counsel?”

“And Trey Kirkman’s girlfriend.”

She spluttered. “For four months.”

“Irrelevant.” Lyor pushed his crumpled, ink stained napkin to the centre of the table, jabbing at the smear of scattered words talking about public interest. Kendra’s name had been underlined 3 times. A relationship angle was a sure bait for voter intrigue, and while using the dating life of the campaigner’s brother was, admittedly, a reach, Lyor worked with what he had. It helped that Trey was unusually involved in the President’s life. And that he and Kendra made a good looking couple. “The point is, with widower Kirkman and no VP to speak of, you’re the closest thing we have to a First Lady.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Unless you want me to start booking Penny Kirkman in.”

Lyor had no interest in dragging a still-grieving child into the ugly glare that was the campaign spotlight, and he knew that Kendra, with her growing fondness for the little girl, would be just as opposed. Still, Kendra chewed her lip moodily. For someone who made a living from standing up in court, she was inconveniently leery about attention. Lyor didn’t know what she was so worried about though; she’d be able to eat those reporters up. He pushed on. “You’re intelligent, you’re striking, you have a personal connection with the Kirkmans; you’re just what we need to grease this campaign wheel.”

She gave him an unimpressed look from under her lashes, but the corner of her mouth was twitching; Lyor knew he had her. If not through his compliments, then at least through her loyalty. He felt a sudden and vibrant stab of gratitude towards her. “So that’s what I am now?” she said, mockingly offended. “Campaign grease?”

Lyor smiled widely. “Intelligent and striking campaign grease, yes.” Then, quietly, “Thank you.”

Kendra shook her head with a laugh. “I have a feeling this campaign is gonna make me regret being friends with you,” she said, eyes crinkling fondly.

Lyor’s smile dropped, and he let his gaze drop, head drifting to stare out the cafe window. They weren’t too far from the White House, only a few streets away, and with the building so close he could almost see it. Almost unwillingly, his mind bumped up against the thought of Emily again. He remembered the crisp, steely vein of anger in Kendra’s voice as she’d told him everything Emily had been up to. She had been friends with Emily too before, he was sure.

On the little TV behind the cafe counter, the news was playing, running a clip from the Iowa rally. Campaign season had well had truly begun.

Lyor poked the remains of his lunch. His appetite had disappeared again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyor has many Feelings, and exactly 0 idea of how to deal well them


	5. #firstleapforward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Lyor strategise, philosophise, and eat eggs. Also, Aaron receives an unexpected offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively: the one where everybody is a little shit but Aaron, who is just trying to survive working with these Literal Children
> 
> Once again, Spanish translations at the end of the chapter.

**June 5th, 2018**

Campaigning, as Lyor liked to say, never slept. It did, however, eat breakfast.

“You have your 11 o’clock with the swing state Independents,” Lyor said in between bites of omelette. “Use that as an opportunity to float this new infrastructure program you’re putting together. They’ve been screaming for reform for years; they’ll eat it up.” The President had been amenable to his suggestion of beginning each day with a campaign brief over breakfast; likely out of the entirely accurate assumption that Lyor would be more than happy to barge into the Residence and act as the President’s new alarm clock if it meant getting his daily discussion points covered. Judging by the way Tom was pouring himself the blackest coffee possible, though, he may have been regretting that choice.

“Yes, the same way I’ll be floating it at the charity dinner on Tuesday and the road opening on Wednesday,” he said dryly. “I understand, Lyor.”

“Don’t forget the North Carolina fundraiser on Thursday,” Lyor pointed out helpfully.

Tom stared flatly at him, then downed his coffee in two swallows. “The others, yes, but North Carolina is off limits,” he said sternly.

“Why?” Lyor gestured vaguely with his fork. “The fundraiser is for the collapsed bridge. The bridge that this program is going to rebuild, along with all the other faulty infrastructure in the country. This is exactly what they want to hear!”

“No, they want to have the deaths of nineteen people acknowledged. And _respected_.”

“You can do that too. Multitask.”

“On Thursday I am going to be the President, not a candidate,” Tom said, and wiped his mouth with an air of finality. Lyor shook his head, a frustrated chuckle bubbling behind his teeth.

“Sir, those two things are not mutually exclusive anymore, and they won’t be until Election Day,” he reminded him. “You need to build on the momentum you’ve grown from Iowa.” Last week’s rally had been the perfect way to kick off their campaign. It had been impressive, it had set them apart from the other candidates, and most importantly it had been authentic, something voters these days had a keen nose for. In short, it had been exactly what they needed, and the numbers proved it. “For the start of a campaign, you’re trending spectacularly. Don’t take that for granted.”

Tom inclined his head in wry acknowledgement. “Trust me, I’m not. I’m still astounded that I managed to pull it off without embarrassing myself.” Self effacing words aside, a little glow of quiet pride seemed to be shining through, and deservedly so. No doubt though, the pride was for more than just himself. “Seth really came through, didn’t he?”

Lyor couldn’t control the curve of his lips. “He has his moments.”

That won him a genuine chuckle, but Tom sobered again as Lyor’s smile waned. He set his cutlery down with a clatter, latticing his fingers as he mulled over how best to approach what he had on his mind—how to get through to one of the most stubborn men Lyor had ever encountered—and the President must have sensed the burning thoughts rolling through his mind.

“What is it?” he prompted, and Lyor fixed him with a hard stare.

“Sir...Things will only get harder from here on out. Iowa’s sabotage was nothing.” Lyor mentally filtered through his long and messy employment record. This sort of campaigning, more than anything, was his field of expertise. “I’ve worked for men like Moss. I know how they think, and I know what tactics they’ll try to win this thing.”

Tom raised his eyebrows, unruffled. “That puts us at an advantage, don’t you think?”

So that was what Lyor was; their inside man into the mind of dirty politics. He would have been fine with that, if only it were enough. “Mm,” he hummed, unconvinced. “I also know that if you don’t start thinking the same way, we’ll have lost before we even begin.”

That did seem to reach the President, judging by how his face tightened as he pushed his plate of eggs away distastefully. Clearly this wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but Lyor’s job wasn’t to deliver palatable lies. This was what the President needed to hear. “We got lucky with the protest, but we’re not always going to have Seth to pull a rabbit out of a hat. You’ve already only got one leg to stand on, sir, and Moss and Porter are waiting in the wings to hack it off with a chainsaw.”

Tom nodded slowly. Lyor wondered offhandedly if the President had been expecting this from him. The President didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to; his gaze was roaming. First to the door which, judging by how Penny Kirkman had burst out of it earlier to grab breakfast and run, was his daughter’s bedroom. Then, with magnetic inevitability, it was pulled to a photo frame propped up on the mantelpiece: a picture of him with the First Lady. He didn’t look away. Lyor resigned himself in that instant to losing this particular battle.

“I’m aware my opponents have the upper hand on me,” Tom said softly. “But that just puts me in the same position as the American people. It was men like Moss who turned our political stage into what it is today. I cannot believe that the tools they’ve used to break the system are the same we’ll use to fix it.” Tom gave his wife once last lingering look before turning back, skewering Lyor with a prying stare of his own. “Let me ask you something, Lyor—have you ever worked for a man like me?”

Now there was an interesting question—and an easy one. Lyor had wrangled many political animals in his life, from the regular power-grabbers to the try-hards, to who he thought were the worst of all: the ‘do-gooders;’ the ones who likened themselves to saints all the while still festering in the same corruption and ineptitude as the others. The one sin Lyor could never forgive was someone passing themselves off as something they could never be. But the curious thing about Tom Kirkman was the he never tried to be anything at all. He simply just was. It made him naive, plain and simple. It was that same naïveté that had prompted him to rehire Emily in the first place, which was stopping him from taking every opportunity he was being handed to promote his campaign. A stifling nobility. It was endlessly frustrating. Lyor should hate it.

Lyor did not hate it.

Maybe his previous clients had left him starved, but Lyor had almost forgotten what sincerity looked like. It had been so long that he could almost feel like he didn’t need it at all, until he got the taste of it from Kirkman; now he was salivating. That steely dedication, the sort he had seen in the President’s eyes at the rally and the same that he was seeing right now, was sparking a fierce flame of admiration that spluttered and spat inside him.

Lyor wore a cautious smile. “No, sir.”

Tom’s eyes brimmed with quiet determination. “Well then maybe I’ll surprise you.”

Lyor had instincts, finely honed ones, and right now they were screaming at him. There was only one true way to win at politics, he knew that. But there was something about Kirkman, the impossible President, that made him want to leap blind and follow him. Blind men didn’t lead victories, though. He turned back to his omelette, chewing eggs as he chewed over Tom’s words. Politics had never surprised Lyor before. Was it possible that this President might?

 

* * *

 

In the short time Nadia had been at the White House, she hadn’t had much luck in the area of making friends. It wasn’t like she was stuck up, or an introvert—just incurably fixated on doing her work and making a good impression; neither of which left much wiggle room to let loose. Especially with the rest of the senior staff, who seemed to have already found their social grooves anyway. If asked who she was closest to—apart from her cousin, of course—she would have to say Seth, but that was purely through second-hand association; literally every personal detail she knew about the guy’s life came from Aaron.

Which was why the last thing she expected to see when she looked up at the sound of someone entering her office was Seth, looking positively conspiratorial.

“Hey, hey. Hey,” he hissed. He shouldered her office door to a half inch close, arms otherwise occupied with a stack of papers. His lips were trembling with the force of being clamped shut; he looked like he was one wrong word away from exploding into laugher.

“...Hey, Seth, what’s up?” Nadia asked, cautiously intrigued.

Seth wordlessly threw down the magazine he had balanced atop his stack of papers on Nadia’s desk.

Nadia clapped a hand across her mouth. There was so much to digest she didn’t even know where to start: the EL POLITICO MÁS GUAPO emblazoned across the cover, perhaps? The excited little bubbles of text—EL FORMA Y SALUDABLE? Or—Nadia flipped eagerly through the magazine—the full page photo of her _extremely_ shirtless cousin?

Damn, she thought, weirdly impressed. Who knew Aaron was such a ho?

“Oh my god,” she murmured, skimming the whole article in all its glory. She wrenched her eyes from the paragraph proudly exclaiming how Aaron was “listo y disponible,” looking up to gape at Seth. “ _Oh my god_.”

Seth leaned in close. “Here’s my offer,” he said. “Translate this for me in full, and I’ll give you all these—“ with a flourish, he dumped the stack of what Nadia realised were photocopies of the magazine’s front cover right on top of the original—“to do with what you will.”

Nadia stared up at him in utter awe. “I think you just became my favourite person.” Seth grinned.

She thumbed her way thoughtfully through the stack, considering her options. God, this was far too much power to handle at 9 in the morning. In saying that...

“Hey...Do you think you’d be able to keep Aaron away from his office for, say, ten minutes?” Nadia asked innocently. Seth’s eyes lit up along with the incredulous smirk that brightened his face. He had already whipped his phone out, typing up a storm.

“Yes. Yes I can.”

Nadia had seen Aaron’s office; how bland it was—really, she reasoned, they were doing him a favour by adding a splash of colour. Besides, it was only right that he showcase his greatest achievements. It wasn’t every day you ended up on a Top 10 Sexiest Politicians list, after all. Nadia had never been more proud.

 

* * *

 

Lyor cruised back through the West Wing, hands stuffed in his pockets as he rolled the dilemma that was the President and the challenge of convincing him to do literally anything that was in his best interests. The man’s particular brand of self-righteousness made him one of the most trying people Lyor had ever worked for. One of the most interesting as well, by a long shot.

More interesting than Kirkman at the moment, though, was the sight he came across as he turned the corner: Seth, looking awfully conspicuous as he loitered outside the door to Aaron’s office, which Lyor knew for a fact was empty considering he’d passed Aaron on his way here. Curiosity bristling, he approached with eyebrows raised.

“What are you up to?”

“Performing my civic duty,” Seth replied solemnly. As he spoke, the door cracked open and Nadia Espinosa slipped out, gleaming with satisfaction. She narrowed her eyes at Lyor for a second, eyeing him up and down critically before evidently deciding that he was no threat to whatever scheme they were so clearly up to.

She turned instead to Seth. “I’ll email you the translation,” she said, and Seth nodded gravely.

“Pleasure doing business with you.” He gave her a sly high five and they shared a wicked grin before Nadia sped away, hiding her smile behind her hand. Lyor watched her go, finally turning back to his friend with the obvious questions carved into his face. Seth was utterly unhelpful; merely pressing a finger to his lips and throwing him a wink before similarly disappearing down the corridor. Blinking, Lyor nudged open the door and peeked through.

Oh. Wow.

He had to hand it to Nadia, he thought as he admired the pages upon pages plastered across the room; the girl was certainly efficient. Not a single surface had been left uncovered. She’d even managed to get one on the roof, right above Aaron’s chair. Lips twitching violently, Lyor snagged a paper from the nearest lamp. He considered Aaron’s face staring back up at him. The man was awfully popular, and—not that this article would lead anyone to believe it—not just for his pretty, impressively clear-skinned face. The thought stirred the tinders of an idea that had been quietly burning in the back of his mind for the last week. For this campaign, they were going to need a clear direction; fresh, dynamic, inspiring. El politico más guapo might just be it.

Right on cue, Aaron appeared from the direction Seth had just fled. Lyor, still stood in the doorway of the crime scene, bit his lip to stop himself from laughing prematurely, swiftly stuffing the magazine cover in his pocket. He must have still looked criminal—or maybe Aaron was just leery of anything the campaign manager could possibly want from him—because Aaron narrowed his eyes suspiciously, gesturing him to the side with a sharp flick of the head. Lyor stepped aside obligingly, listening as Aaron spoke impatiently over his shoulder while going inside.

“Whatever it is, Lyor, it’ll have to wait. I have an important meeting in five minutes, and—“

Silence. After a second, Aaron backtracked out into the corridor, looking volcanic. “Did you have something to do with this?” he spat, gesturing violently at his redecorated office.

“If I’d done this, I’d have included more variety,” Lyor said, pulling his copy back out and smoothing out the creases, tapping the criminally small snapshot of a shirtless Aaron. “Yeah, there are some good photos in here. Very well balanced muscle definition. Do you do crunches, or—?”

Aaron snatched the paper out of his hands and crumpled it. “What do you want?” he snapped.

What Lyor really wanted, more so than ever since his talk with the President, was a sure direction. All his vague embers of thought, his instincts, his desire for what he knew this campaign could be gathered together in an instant, and Lyor came to a decision. “Come to the campaign office after your meeting. I won’t keep you long; I just want to discuss selecting our new VP candidate.”

Aaron looked flatly confused. “What do I have to do with selecting the VP candidate?”

Lyor smiled. “Because I want you on the ticket. See you in an hour.” He clapped Aaron on the shoulder as he left. No shirtless photos, he decided, could ever be better than the look of slack jawed astonishment he’d left Aaron with right then.

By the time 10 o’clock rolled around, that look had morphed into something more like poorly constructed nonchalance. Lyor watched from across the room as Aaron sat in his cube, crossing and uncrossing his leg over his knee and stubbornly avoiding making eye contact with the girls, and more than a few boys, from the campaign team eyeing him through the glass like swarm of horny piranhas. Lyor considered letting Aaron stew for another few minutes—he knew with gut-certainty that he could wait another hour without Aaron leaving—but as amusing as this was, Lyor did have other things he needed to get to today. He crossed the room, and Aaron’s face cleared with impatient relief as Lyor entered the office and the bloodsuckers outside dispersed.

Lyor bit down on another chuckle; Aaron had never been this happy to see him before, he was sure. “How was your meeting?”

Aaron huffed humourlessly. “Distracted.” Casting one last look around the office, he made to stand. “Look, Lyor, let me cut this short. While honoured—“ his eyes flickered unsurely—“I like my current position.”

They were really going to do this? Lyor smiled blandly. “The one with the very important meetings?”

“Right.” Aaron laughed a little, and he actually sounded like he believed what he was spitting. “And I’m from Texas, which Moss will carry as a native son, so I’d be of no help to the ticket, geographically.”

Lyor was thoroughly unimpressed. “Please, geographic balance is a relic concept.”

“Okay, look, I’ve never run for office,” Aaron pressed. “I don’t have the appetite to. Frankly, I’m not sure I’d be particularly good at it.”

“Why not?” Lyor leaned forward, feeling distinctly hawkish. “You’ve already got the lying skills of a good candidate, because I’m certain only one of those things is true.”

Aaron scowled, snapping his mouth open and shut in vain. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t get up, and Lyor nodded in satisfaction. He didn’t know Aaron particularly well, all things considered, but he’d sensed the makings of a climber in him from the moment he’d laid eyes on the man. That subtle cologne of quiet ambition rolled off of Aaron with every move he made, every word he spoke, every look he sent. Even now, Lyor could see that hungry roaming look in his eyes, gleaming brighter with every whirl of the cogs in that brain of his. He would make his excuses to Lyor, of course, to not seem too eager—or maybe he didn’t even know how deep this ran in him; he’d never struck Lyor as the inward-looking type—but at the end of it all, through every obnoxiously pointed comment Lyor made, Aaron was still sitting on his couch, and that’s all Lyor needed to see.

Abruptly, Lyor closed the distance between them, perching on the other end of the couch, all searching intensity as he honed his gaze on Aaron. As a person, Aaron was probably among the least interesting Lyor had ever encountered. As a potential vice-presidential candidate? He was utterly fascinating, and Lyor was ready to start digging. “Ah, your surname—did you have an Anglo father? I’ve always wondered.”

Aaron shifted uncomfortably. Whether it was from the question, or their sudden proximity, or just the probing way he was being eyed, Lyor wasn’t sure. “...No, that was changed.”

That was not, Lyor decided, particularly surprising. It could have gone either way—Aaron certainly looked European enough that being biracial wasn’t out of the realm of possibility—but Aaron also seemed the type who’d slide into assimilation like a second skin. There was always a slight air of tension whenever his Mexican heritage was brought up; a challenge, a jut of the chin, a silent _what’s your point?_ So different from that spunky little cousin of his. For Lyor it just triggered more questions: what had his name been, before? When had he changed it? The way he’d phrased it—“ _that was changed_?” Had it not been him who’d done it? His parents? Was he ashamed—of the change, or of the name?

It wasn’t as if Lyor didn’t understand, exactly. Assimilation was something he’d inherited, one of the few things his father had ever given him: there was a reason his name was Boone, after all. That was a change as old as his grandparents’ immigration papers. As old as World War Two.

“My grandfather did the same,” he told Aaron. He pushed his glasses up, ponderous. “Shame, really. Always thought Baranowsky had a better ring to it.” One of the few things his father had given him. One of the many things he wished he could hand straight back. No point contemplating dead men, though, not when he had a very much alive one at the centre of his attention. He tilted his head sidelong to look at Aaron from over his glasses. “Would you consider changing it back?”

In an instant, a kaleidoscope of emotion flickered through from the tensing of Aaron’s jaw, the darkening of his eyes. Most of it Lyor couldn’t even parse, but one needed no translation: anger. “Okay.” It was more of a exhale of disdain than any kind of word. Finally, he stood, making for the door even as he continued to speak. “Well, if this is about exploiting my Latino background, I’ll most certainly pass.”

Lyor resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Aaron had been taken aback, it was clear, and the fact that up until this moment he honestly hadn’t thought his background was playing into Lyor’s decision was almost adorable, and entirely unexpected, in its naïveté—what kind of a politician was Aaron, anyhow? More than anything, it was petulant: at a level Lyor hadn’t wagered for. He did not want Aaron storming out that door.

“Aaron, _really_ ,” he wheedled, and Aaron paused, fingers on the handle. He turned his head back, mulishly reluctant, as Lyor continued. “Humour me and think this through. You’re an excellent fit. You bolster Kirkman’s foreign policy bona fides, you’re experienced, you’re admired, and yeah, you caught me, you’re Latino.” Lyor clasped his hands, trying to inject all his sincerity into a voice he knew Aaron was predisposed to disregard without a second thought. This wasn’t pandering, after all: Lyor hadn’t pulled this from his ass. “Latinos, millenials, urban blacks, they were all a huge chunk of the 45% of the eligible voters who stayed home last time because they had no good options. What I’m trying to explain to them, and to all of America, is that the President, and hopefully you, are a new, amazing option.”

Those words tasted funny coming from his own mouth. Lyor dearly hoped that he wouldn’t have to go through this process again. He sighed, just to prove his point. “I’ve given you no less than five compliments in the last ten seconds. Don’t make me regret them.”

Aaron wasn’t saying anything, muscles in his jaw working furiously. His fingers were still wrapped around the door handle, but they weren’t moving. In his eyes, Lyor could see that familiar spark; the mind gazing skyward, reaching up.

“Let me think about it,” he finally said. Lyor accepted that with a humble nod, and he let Aaron escape. He watched his form disappear into the midst of the campaign office. His lips curled into a smile as he muttered to himself.

“Good luck thinking about anything else.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> El politico mas guapo = The most handsome politician  
> El forma y saludable = Fit and healthy  
> Listo y disponible = Ready and available


	6. #theoffer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaron wrestles with the prospect of becoming VP.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a chapter where I strive to create an Aaron who I don’t want to throw things at.
> 
> Also...I’d apologise about this chapter being late, but honestly y’all should just expect a fortnightly update schedule from this point onwards.

  **June 5th, 2018**

Aaron wandered out of the campaign office like a lost dog. He felt like he’d been in that room with Lyor for hours. At the very least, it had aged him. Having the prospect of becoming one of the most powerful men in the world suddenly thrust upon him did that to a man, particularly if the offer came with the caveat that he be America’s Latino poster boy. Aaron blinked up at the sky; slatey and dull, it held no answers except the promise of rain.

Maybe he should take that as a bad omen. He snorted. Jesus, what was wrong with him?

He needed to walk, to think. Aaron drifted down the street, deciding almost without thought to take the long way back, passing the edge of the Ellipse. The White House was perfect for triggering the synapse flairs, pushing the split-second decisions. Right now, he needed to sort through too many wires in his head, ones that needed careful extraction, and the quiet of the breeze through tree leaves helped far more for that. It was calming, anyway, and right now Aaron needed calm, because the indignant seething that frothed up from the moment Lyor had asked about his surname was edging dangerously close to boiling point. Where the hell did Lyor get off, exactly, using his background like a poker chip to win more votes in the election? And then acting as if he was the fool for not seeing this coming, or daring to get offended? It was that honest surprise in Lyor’s eyes that had pissed him off more than anything.

He wasn’t interested in being so blatantly used. No way. And like he’d said, he wasn’t keen on being the Vice President anyway. Even if Lyor hadn’t seemed to believe a word of it. That was his issue, not Aaron’s. Aaron was perfectly content. Why hadn’t he just given Lyor a flat out no? God, this had been such a waste of time. He should be back at the White House, doing his actual job, handling the important things.

So why, exactly, were his feet slowing down? Fuck, he was all over the place today.

Aaron stopped, raking a hand over his face. As he contemplated whether or not his indecision was borne from the fact that he subconsciously wanted to go back to the campaign office and punch Lyor in the face, he felt his phone buzz. As he dug it out, his heart sank.

Nadia: _Toby said you’re at the campaign office????_

Trust his aide to forgo discretion when he most needed it. This news was something Aaron would prefer to let sit in his own mind for a while, and to his memory, Nadia had never let anything _just sit_ her whole life. Aaron wasn’t sure she knew how. At the same time, though, the only people who knew about this at the moment were presumably himself, Lyor, and the President—an odd group to hold a secret with. Aaron had the feeling that if he didn’t talk this over with somebody else he could quite possibly go insane.

With a deep and abiding sense of doom, Aaron typed out a reply.

_Yeah_

_I have news_

_Lyor offered me VP_

He eyed the screen. Bubbles, bubbles, bubbles—

_AARON WHAT THE FUCK_

_VP???_

_wait_

Despite himself, Aaron smiled a little at his cousin’s frenzy of messages. When her call came through a split second later, he could answer without an unbearable amount of trepidation.

“When were you gonna tell me?” Nadia’s voice was an excited wall of sound. Aaron winced a little, pulling the phone away from his ear as he chuckled.

“Give me a break, it happened eight minutes ago.”

“Oh my god, this is amazing! I mean, congratulations, to start.” Of course she was happy for him. Of course. Nadia’s grin strained through her voice. Aaron could picture her glowing face already, probably jittering up and down on her heels the way she had since she was small. Conejito, his dad had used to call her; little bunny. Aaron was grateful he wasn’t there to see that smile drop.

“Don’t congratulate me yet,” he said, hesitating a fraction. “I told him I’d think about it.”

Nadia laughed a little, like they were still joking around. “You’d think about it?”

Aaron replied, with all the seriousness in the world. “It’s not that great a job anyway.”

There was a long pause. Aaron was half about to check to see if the call had disconnected before Nadia’s voice crackled through. “...Are you having a stroke?” Aaron sighed, but Nadia wasn’t done. “Just because Gardner said it was a bucket of warm spit—“

“They cleaned that up,” he interjected, if only to stop Nadia from running away with the conversation. This, he reminded himself wearily, was why he’d wanted to keep this to himself. “He called it a bucket of warm piss.”

“Oh, well in that case.” Nadia said; Aaron could practically hear her rolling her eyes. Throughout their whole conversation, Aaron had moved maybe ten steps, but now he stopped completely, leaning against the back of a park bench as his cousin exclaimed in his ear, giddy excitement returned in full force. “Aaron, seriously. It’s the _vice-presidency_. Kirkman can only serve one more term; you’d be heir apparent next time, win or lose!”

Maybe it was the way Nadia said it, the reverence of her tone, the wonder of it, but Aaron caught himself wondering too. A seat at the Resolute Desk, at the head of the free world; Commander in Chief. Perhaps it was the small town boy still living inside him after all these years swilling it in D.C, but Aaron had never given his imagination quite enough leave for that. Taking that unimaginable step; could it really be worth all this?

“Come on, Mr Overachiever.” Nadia’s teasing drawl pushed through his reverie. “You have bossed me around far too much for me to believe you don’t wanna be the first Latino President of the United States.”

Aaron stiffened. Nadia too? He should have known. Apparently, this was what everyone saw when they looked at him. He hissed out a frustrated breath. “You sound just like that baboso.”

“You mean Lyor?” Nadia’s voice was clipped with genuine annoyance now. At least they were on the same page about that. “First of all, hurtful. Second, is this about your whole ‘I’m more than my heritage’ thing? Because I will seriously smack you through the phone.”

From the moment Nadia had been old enough to string sentences together, she’d played the role of his devil’s advocate. Silly things, mostly, just to rile him up—she had pushing his buttons down to a fine art by now—but this was one of their few arguments that sparked genuine tension, and Nadia had never quite been able to let it go. Not from when she was little, with her endless questions—“What’s wrong with your real name? Why don’t you like Abuelita’s cooking anymore? Why won’t you speak to me in Spanish in front of your dumb friends?”—and not now, with the most important decision of his life.

He gritted his teeth. “It’s not a ‘thing,’ Nadia, it’s a perfectly valid stance, and I know you think it’s stupid—“

“Stupid is the nicest word I’d use.” Her tone softened, warming into something closer to fond exasperation. “We’re having dinner tonight, and we’re gonna talk about this, alright? No buts.” Aaron had a feeling that his acceptance was more or less decided already on this, but before he could even agree, the indistinct chatter of faraway voices over the phone cut him off. Nadia sighed.

“Okay, I gotta go, but I’m just gonna leave you with this thought. Maybe you’re the baboso.”

She hung up with an evil giggle, and Aaron was left staring at his black phone screen, with the most-assuredly-not-a-baboso reflected back at him.

He stayed rooted to the spot like that for a few seconds, lost in heavy thought, before a splatter of water droplets hit his phone. He peered up at the opening sky, and hurried off. It looked like it was about to pour.

 

* * *

 

Pour it did, drumming down on every window in the West Wing and dragging Aaron’s mind relentlessly back to his conversation with Nadia, no matter how much he tried to renege on his promise to Lyor and put the VP offer out of his mind completely so he could focus on his actual work. The rain stopped eventually, the murky storm-ridden sky fading unnoticed into the dark of early evening, and Aaron escaped onto one of the White House’s many balconies to finally get some peace from all of it. Blinking wearily, he looked out. With night lights blinking on and residual raindrops covering trees and rooftops alike with a crystalline sheen, the city glittered.

Aaron lit a cigarette.

It was a guilty pleasure, one he only let himself indulge after a particularly crippling day. On and off since college, when he’d first found out what stress—real stress—was like, but no matter how few and far between each smoke was, he made sure he always had a pack safely stowed in his pocket. It paid to be prepared. This last month had been particularly brutal; he only had one left. He resented it, honestly: the way the ashy smell clung to his fingers and turned his breath sour, but when the taste of nicotine curled at the back of his throat, hitting him like a memory, suddenly he was back on that college campus; young, so young, and with the world waiting at his feet. These days, he couldn’t turn down that chemical nostalgia for anything.

This secret might’ve banished him from La Bochinchera entirely, he thought, and he exhaled with a smile that, all things considered, wasn’t too forced. It didn’t last, and he rolled the smoky taste in his mouth, willing his mind to go blank.

“Thought I’d find you out here.”

He glanced around; Seth was standing at the entrance, hands in his pockets. Out of guilty instinct, Aaron half made to drop his hand, and the cigarette held in it, out of sight. But Seth didn’t comment, just wandered over to stand by his side and claim his own view of D.C.

No sense in hiding it now. Aaron took another puff, then looked at his friend curiously. “How’d you know?”

Seth shrugged, still counting city lights with his eyes. “You come out here whenever you’re freaking out, ‘cause it’s the best place to indulge in your ‘secret’ stress-smoking without getting dirty looks.”

Aaron blinked. He hadn’t realised he’d established such a trackable pattern. Honestly, he didn’t even know anybody knew about his smoking. Then again, maybe most didn’t; Seth had a way of paying attention to the things others missed. If anyone was going to notice this it would be Seth, anyway. They’d been friends for over five years now, since long before Kirkman. Still, it was an odd feeling: being known so unexpectedly.

He rolled the cigarette between his fingers, ash sprinkling off and spluttering to a dirty grey nothing on the damp railing. Seth, he realised, was now looking his way.

“Is it helping?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious.

The next inhale he took barely had a taste. “Sure,” he said tonelessly.

Seth’s lips twitched. “Come on, gimme that.” He extended a hand, fingers wiggling beseechingly.

After a second’s hesitation, Aaron handed it over. “Didn’t think you smoked.”

“Not anymore...Not _nicotine_.” Seth waggled his eyebrows, grinning devilishly, and Aaron breathed out a faint laugh, one that grew as Seth took an ambitiously large drag and exploded into a seismic coughing fit. He nearly dropped the damn thing off the balcony, burying his face in his elbow. “And that’s why,” he spluttered, wrinkling his nose and glaring at the offending smoke. “God, that’s disgusting.”

Aaron shook his head with a grin. “Give it here, then.”

Seth held it hostage. “No way, I’ve committed to this bonding moment.” To prove his point, he had the tiniest smoke Aaron had ever seen before grimacing and handing it back. Aaron snorted and returned it to his lips. They smoked in silence for a few minutes, becoming part of the skyline with the tiny glow of the lit end passing wordlessly between them; just another light in a city full of them. Slowly, Aaron felt himself easing up, muscles that he hadn’t even realised were knotted loosening as he leaned against the drying railing. He’d needed some space, a moment to clear his head; it was why he’d snuck away into solitude. Somehow, though, Seth’s quiet, easy presence at his side didn’t feel like an intrusion.

“So...” Seth said eventually, giving him a sidelong glance as he broke the silence. “VP position giving you grief?”

So he knew as well. Well, that explained why Seth went looking for him out here. “Lyor?” he asked. Seth just cocked his eyebrows. Who _else?_ he seemed to be saying. Of course, Seth seemed to be the sieve for Lyor’s spilled thoughts these days. He should have been annoyed, but at this point Aaron couldn’t bring himself to care. He just sighed. “You could say that.”

Seth breathed out smoke. “It’s what you’ve always wanted though, right?” he said quietly. “I mean, maybe not the vice-presidency specifically, but you’ve always been here to climb.” After he spoke, he took another puff, tipping his head back and releasing a commendable attempt at a few smoke rings, fat and half formed, that disintegrated into formless smoke scribbles as they drifted up, up, up. Aaron tracked them with his gaze, and thought. That was the third time he’d heard that today. The assumption—no, the recognition. Just because he’d always kept his eyes on Chief of Staff, didn’t mean he hadn’t wanted to guide them higher.

“...Yeah,” he finally conceded. “But not if it was like this. I’ve spent my whole life trying not to be defined by my heritage, and now I’m supposed to be okay with the fact that I could easily be reaching the peak of my career just because I’m Latino?”

Seth turned to him as he handed the cigarette over, wearing a wry, funny sort of smile. Aaron held his gaze, expectancy building in the back of his throat. Not for answers, but, maybe, for some understanding.

“...You remember when you offered me the Press Secretary position?” Seth asked slowly, and Aaron inhaled far too sharply. He coughed, cheeks heating a little. Seth continued unperturbed. “You thought it’d look good to have the kid of Muslim immigrants as the face of the administration—“

“—And you kicked me out of your office.” Aaron finished bitterly, and looked away. He’d completely forgotten about that, and now the memory was crystallising into unpleasant clarity. God, he’d been an asshole. “Okay, I get it. Serves me right. I’m being a major hypocrite, and I should just suck it up because I would make the same call.”

Seth snorted. “While the irony is extremely tempting to rub in, that’s not my point.” Aaron turned back to see Seth’s face, open and earnest. “My point is that I took the job—not for your reasons, but because I genuinely believed it would help me do some good, and because the President believed in my merit. The fact that I became the face for cultural solidarity in America or whatever was besides the point. And look at me now.” He spread his arms wide. “All things considered, I’d say things turned out pretty...” he floundered for a second, then gave a jaunty, self deprecating shrug. “...Well, okay.” Aaron had his lips pressed in a thin line, nodding slowly as he dropped his head, chest thrumming with all sorts of uncertainties. Seth didn’t seem satisfied with that. “So maybe being Latino did get your foot in the door,” he said gently, sounding, all of a sudden, like he’d never been more confident in his words. “But that doesn’t change the fact that the offer is going to the only guy I know worthy of being the Vice President.”

That made Aaron snap his head up. Every line in Seth’s face was solemn seriousness; no trace of irony there. Aaron opened his mouth, struggling to put into words the magnitude of thoughts and feelings crashing through his mind at that moment, starting with a thank you, at least, but at that moment, his phone went off. He made a cut-off noise of apology, checking his messages. Nadia had sent a photo of her stovetop loaded with a pot of broth.

_Gonna be cooking tonight. Feeling brave?_ the message below read.

“Oh shit, I’m having dinner with Nadia tonight,” he said. “I gotta go.” Seth waved him off. Aaron fiddled with the cigarette still in his hand, the last in the pack. He handed it over with a smirk. Seth accepted it with a heavy grace and visible reluctance.

“Hey, how do I get this smell out?” Seth called after him as he headed back inside. Aaron just laughed at him.

 

* * *

 

“Seth thinks I should take it,” Aaron said, leaning against the sink in Nadia’s cramped kitchenette as she fussed with the pot. “He said essentially what you did this morning, just with fewer insults.”

“Aww, you know I love you.” Nadia was distracted, more focused on straining her blended chilies into what was supposed to be pozole, a dish that even Aaron couldn’t resist—when it was done right. His cousin took to cooking the way she did to everything else; with absolute, unfettered enthusiasm. Unfortunately, unlike everything else she tried her hand at, cooking didn’t seem to feel the same way about her.

“Yeah, well...” Aaron thumped his head back against a waiting kitchen cabinet, barely registering the thud. “Lyor thinks so—well obviously, this was his idea. And the President must have signed off on it—Christ, when I told him I’d think about it, I didn’t think it meant I wouldn’t be able to think about anything else.”

That got her attention, and Nadia straightened up to face him, soup forgotten. “Okay...what have these thoughts been, specifically?”

Aaron judiciously took custody of the spoon. “Well, it is the second most powerful position in the free world.”

“Wait, it is?” She blinked long, baffled lashes. Aaron would have been impressed by her poker face if she wasn’t committed to being a little shit. “Someone told me it was a bucket of warm piss.”

Okay, well, they didn’t have to revisit all the greatest hits of his hypocrisy today. Still, it seemed unfathomable that hours ago, the vice presidency hadn’t even been a blip on his radar—well, not one he’d registered, anyway. He could still hardly believe his own mouth as he muttered out: “My...views on the subject are evolving.” Even saying that felt colossal, and he could practically hear a sharp intake of breath from Nadia. He deflected by tasting the pozole—and then immediately rescuing it with a healthy sprinkle of cumin.

Nadia snatched the shaker away with good humour, but her voice was deadly serious when she spoke. “On the office, or wanting it?”

Aaron weighed his words carefully. With every passing moment that he examined this offer in his head, the idea of turning it down seemed more impossible—the thought, now, of simply returning to his old, tired trajectory of working as the National Security Advisor and then—what? Be forever stuck wondering what he’d let slip through his fingers? The thought made him queasy. “You said it would instantly make me a plausible presidential contender,” he said. “It’s something I’ve never dreamt of, an opportunity that might never come again.” Saying it aloud only made it sound more reasonable to his ears. And yet, and yet...

“...But?” Nadia cocked her head dubiously.

Aaron sighed. But, yes. As much as the thought of passing the opportunity up left him unsettled, there was still a pebble of doubt stuck in his shoe, biting with an unrelenting ache. “You and Lyor and, for all I know, the President, want me to be the Great Latino Hope.”

He crossed his arms defensively as Nadia’s lips turned down. Behind them, the pot bubbled, finally starting to smell halfway correct; wafting aromas, memories. The scent was already warm and meaty and burning with spice under his tongue. It was his mother’s kitchen in the fall as he did his homework at the table. He’d stopped bringing his white friends home in middle school, hating the way their faces would contort eating his mum’s cooking; not American enough for their palates. He hadn’t wanted to give them the ammunition to laugh behind his back, talking with their parents at home about _that Mexican kid_. He didn’t want that to be the way they knew him.

“I’ve been looking to avoid that all my life,” he reminded her.

“I _know_.” Nadia sounded wounded, the words quietly ragged as they came from her mouth. Aaron felt a churning in his gut caught somewhere between guilt and anger, and he did his best to ignore it—this wasn’t an argument he wanted to have with her tonight. It was hard not to listen, though, as she kept talking, recovering into stubborn insistence once again. “But you’re a grown ass man. Your identity and your relationship to it is something you worked out for yourself a long time ago, and it’s gonna survive whatever external objectification you might be in for in a national campaign.”

He snorted. “Yeah, might be?”

“Will be.” She waggled the cumin decisively. “I’m still right.”

Was she? Aaron’s mind whirred. He wanted to believe her; that this would all roll off his back. He wanted to take Seth’s advice, and take this opportunity as something to use rather than be used by. And why shouldn’t he? Nobody was standing in his way—in fact, they’d laid the path out for him. All it would take was one phone call, to seize the opportunity that the little Mexican kid scribbling at his mother’s table would never have dared think possible. Yeah, Aaron knew who he was. He certainly wasn’t that little kid anymore—and he needed to take his life into his own hands.

He pulled out his phone. He dialled the number.

Nadia had half heartedly picked the wooden spoon back up, but now she dropped it with a clatter. “Holy shit, is this really happening?” she asked, eyes fixed on his hand, pale and tense enough to break the phone he was holding to his ear.

Lyor’s voice message was surprisingly to the point. Aaron was grateful; it didn’t give him any time to change his mind. The beep sounded, and he cleared his throat. Alright, he had to get this perfect. “Lyor,” he said—and, god, he hoped his voice only sounded this rough to his own ears. “Hey, sorry to bother you so late, I...I guess it’s your voicemail, so this is not really, uh...Look, I-I just wanted to touch base—Not, uh, touch base, so much as, um...”

The hands pressed to Nadia’s mouth weren’t nearly enough to muffle out her choked sniggering. Aaron shot her a dirty look, sucked in some air, tried to set his mind at ease. Alright, he could still salvage this. “Look, I-I-I, um, wanted to call you to tell you th—Shit.”

His message cut off. Even the beep sounded distinctly as if it were mocking him. The back of his neck growing uncomfortably hot, Aaron slammed the redial icon.

Nadia, unmercifully, had recovered the power of speech. “Please, please tell me you’re gonna be writing your own speeches.”

“Wha—“ Aaron barely heard her, too busy fighting the urge to hurl his phone right into the soup pot. “You gotta be shitting me, his mailbox is full!”

Nadia just watched him pace, gleefully unimpressed as he tore his hands through his hair and released his curls into a springy mess over his forehead. “Oh my god, text him then,” she laughed.

Aaron spun around savagely, glaring at her wild eyed. “I’m not gonna text him!” he yelped. “You don’t-you don’t accept a VP nod via text message!” He slammed his phone down on the counter.

“Uh, is email too hip as well? Should you send him a calligraphic letter sealed in wax?”

“Okay, could you just stop for one—“ the words dried up dead in his throat as a piercing buzz filled the air. As one, their eyes swivelled to where his phone lay: Lyor’s name was on the screen.

Aaron snatched it up faster than he could process. Brushing past Nadia and her double thumbs up, he could only spare half a prayer that she wouldn’t burn the kitchen down in his absence as he stumbled out into the living area and answered the call. “Lyor.”

 

* * *

 

**June 6th, 2018**

The Third Estate hadn’t changed a bit in the eight years Aaron had been wiling away evenings there. First on his own, then accompanied by the ever-revolving faces of his career, and then with some steadier companions. This was where Seth had dragged him the first time they’d had a drink together as cautiously friendly colleagues, and it had been their haunt ever since, with them inevitably suckering Emily into it as well as they drank to their successes, their failures, and their steady stream of frustrations. Between the three of them, they probably knew every bump, scratch, and stain on that weathered old bar. This was where Aaron had his first drink as an honest-to-god, D.C politician. It was where he’d taken Nadia for hers. This place held memories.

Tonight, though, he was here on his own, and he was here to celebrate.

Earlier that day, he’d been called in to see the President. There, they’d made it official: Aaron was now the Vice President elect. Now, it still felt as unbelievable as it had been 24 hours ago when he’d answered that call from Lyor and had managed to stutter out that, yes, this really was what he wanted. Only the President’s steady handshake as Aaron had formally accepted had broken through a fraction into reality. That and his words, equally as heavy: “Absolute loss of privacy,” Tom had warned. “In no way, shape, or form would your life be your own.”

Aaron didn’t need the warning. Those words formed the shape of the fear he’d been wrestling down since Lyor had raised the offer in the first place; the idea of people all over the nation dissecting him with nothing but their eyes and preconceived notions, reducing him to something he wasn’t. So, he was going to take advantage of the privacy he still had to himself. Having a drink at The Third Estate might not be possible in sixteen months, if he was lucky.

He grimaced. Luck was a double edged sword, it seemed.

Aaron was about to wash down that sour contemplation with a drink when a purse dropped down onto the bar beside his loosely clasped hands. A guilty presumption—that this was a fan of La Bochinchera he’d have to shake off—crossed his mind, but even as he chased it away chidingly, he looked up and realised his mistake.

Emily gave him a warm smile as she took a seat next to him. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

_Em_. Aaron couldn’t help his surprise. He hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of her since their dinner with the President a week ago. It had been a small something just to know she was back in the state, at least. But now she was here. He slid his eyes behind her, half expecting to see Seth bounding through the entrance to join them; but the door had swung closed. Emily was flying solo tonight, it seemed. Unexpected, but he was far from in a position to judge. He’d meant this to be a night of solitude, to sink into the weight of this shattering decision he’d thrown himself into. Emily, though, he didn’t mind.

“Hey, Em.” Aaron leaned back, only then realising how hunched he’d been over the abused bar top, coiled like a spring. This mustn’t have looked like much of a celebration. “Thanks.”

“This explains why I saw you at the campaign office yesterday.” She smirked. “Figured it wasn’t a social visit.”

Aaron burst out laughing, casting her a pitying grin. “At least I’m not working for him.” He’d seen Lyor twitching like a little spitfire the day they’d found out Em would be joining the campaign. He couldn’t imagine that had been a fun conversation from her end.

“Oh, you are now, trust me,” she said testily, but she mellowed instantly. Aaron had known Emily long enough to appreciate how easy it was to cut himself on her, but tonight, lit by the bronzed, beery glow of the bar, Em seemed all soft edges. She gave him a sincere smile. “It’s a great opportunity, Aaron.”

With a forceful push, the words propelled him back two years. Back when he’d been handed another great opportunity—at her expense. She’d congratulated him then too, right? Aaron tried to remember. There’d been alcohol involved, he was sure. A gift that had warmed him every time he’d had a glass, with smug satisfaction and the bitter aftertaste of regret.

It was like she could read his mind as she laughed under her breath, tipping her head back to face him. “You remember when we were both clamouring for Chief of Staff?” She threw the question out so casually, even as her fingers drummed against the bar, dancing along the clasp of her purse.

He inclined his head wryly. “You were vicious.” He closed his eyes a second, chasing down those memories. A couple of days ago it hadn’t seemed so distant. Now, he could barely grasp an echo of what he’d felt back then, when Chief of Staff seemed like the summit of Everest.

When he looked back at Emily, the smile was tight around the edges. “Well, don’t worry,” she said quietly. “This will go uncontested.”

Aaron gave her a long look, unsure how to respond. But she spared him as she quirked her lips, and the moment slithered away with a cool toss of her head. “Here,” she leaned over to signal the bartender, smoothly ordering two single malts. Aaron used to think she ordered that as a way to prove something. Now he knew she could throw the hard taste of that whiskey back easier than him some nights. She slid Aaron’s over his way, grandly, and proffered her own glass in a toast.

“To...once-in-a-lifetime opportunities.”

Aaron clinked their glasses together. Some of that edge had lodged its way back into her spine; the way she was holding her glass, it was as if it were a weapon. Maybe she was trying to prove something tonight after all. But her eyes were on him, and they at least were still all softness, darker and deeper than the whiskey they were sharing. This still didn’t quite feel like celebrating, but it felt like something.

He brought the drink to his lips. “To once in a lifetime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember watching the third episode just waiting for the scene where Seth would call Aaron out on his double standards. Of course, that didn’t happen, because the writers seemed to forget that Seth and Aaron are actually, y’know, good friends, considering they literally had one (1) meaningful scene together in the whole ass season. Ah well, what is this fic if not the vehicle for missed opportunities?


	7. #goneviral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A month after Aaron is made VP, the promoting of the infrastructure bill is complicated when the contentious issue of conversion therapy becomes the topic of the day, Tricia reveals the unsettled minds of the younger generations, and Mars’ personal life interferes with his work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch as I change a plot point and then immediately regret it as I realise I don’t understand how politics work.

**July 12th, 2018**

**5:47 AM**

D.C was beginning to stir.

Well, not entirely. Aaron was sleeping like the dead. He’d just gotten off a flight from Texas, heralding his old home state as his first rally stop as the campaigning VP. The exhilarating rush of it all had pulled everything from him, including his ability to undress himself. He slept with his shoes still on.

Nadia, too, was sleeping soundly in her own little apartment. She hadn’t been anywhere but D.C, but her mind had been in Texas right alongside her cousin. She hoped the rally had gone well. She hoped he’d tell her all about it. She hoped he’d gotten a chance to see his parents before he left.

Across town, Trey snored in a bed that wasn’t his but felt like it should be. He’d been staying at Kendra’s more and more often. He said it was because he liked the mattress, the morning coffee, the memories—or lack thereof—of their first night together. Really, he liked the way their bodies were learning to curl together as they dreamt. Kendra turned towards him as his hand ghosted down her spine. Even in sleep, she smiled.

Emily wasn’t sleeping. Neither was Hannah. Hannah, for her part, was scared that if she closed her eyes she’d hear the click-clack of a keyboard over Melissa-From-Analytics’ “how was your weekend” chatter. Or a drowsy British drawl, carrying a cloud of cologne. Or gunshots. Or nothing at all. Emily wasn’t scared of anything in her dreams—she didn’t need to be. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she held an unopened envelope from the oncology centre. She turned it in her hands, over, and over, and over.

Chuck had only just awoken, getting up for a glass of water and a habitual scroll through his phone. His thumb lingered over Hannah’s contact just a second too long.

Mars didn’t hesitate with his phone, dialling the number of the rehab centre with a grim and practiced air. He’d just found Lynn splayed out on the couch, bottle of pills in her hand. She was still breathing, he told himself. This was nothing they hadn’t done before. It didn’t make him feel better.

Lyor had given sleep up as a bad job about two weeks ago, and was trying out jogging instead. He thought it would clear his head. It just made the figures in his mind spin faster. He indulged in the idea of ringing Seth up for only a second before he chased it away with the air ripping through his lungs. It was good that he did—Seth had only just gotten back to sleep. Still, it wasn’t treating him well. He probably wished someone would wake him up.

In the White House, Tom tossed and turned as well. He wasn’t having bad dreams, exactly. They weren’t good, either. They were merely relentless. He dreamed of Senate votes and speeches and polling data. He dreamed of Alex.

On a Facebook account, a new post lit up a few hundred notifications. By the end of the day, thousands of people will have read it. For now, it stood alone. A profile picture of a smiling girl with a straw hat and too many freckles. A first line that read: _I’m sorry to everyone reading, but I just can’t do this anymore._

The rest of D.C slept on.

 

* * *

 

Mars was fucking exhausted.

He’d only been up since around 6–not the least amount of sleep he’d ever had by far. This was a deeper sort of tired, one that had him lagging two steps behind the rest of the world as Lynn kept his mind anchored at home. In his head, he was still counting pills. There’d been twelve gone. She’d probably had the bottle a week. A goddamn week of his wife relapsing and he hadn’t noticed.

It’d been a good run, he reasoned. Nearly eighteen months now since she’d last gotten clean. It was only a matter of time, really, before this happened again—and god, even thinking that made him want to punch himself in the face.

They’d check her in at the rehab centre on Friday. So here he was, today, at work, because of course he was.

He could redeem himself in his own head, just a fraction, by way of the numbed out realisation that he was merely going through the motions. His wife was sick and suffering, and he was at work, but he couldn’t care less about anything he was doing there—god, what a winning husband. Someone should get him an award. He primed the President for his first interview about their upcoming infrastructure initiative, forced out a chuckle at the man’s jokes—“Wow, you got me talking to everybody but the Poughkeepsie Penny-Saver today”—tried to hate himself just a little bit less.

“...Ah, speaking of pennies,” he said, checking off another box. “The private equity fund that’s kicking $33 billion into Infrastructure...”

“Our friends at VQH Capital?”

Mars nodded. “About a third of that came from a consortium of American businessmen. One of them, Jeffrey Staines, is in town and is requesting a photo with you.”

“For $33 billion, I’ll even smile.” Tom sounded so politely disinterested. Mars appreciated it—he couldn’t give a shit about Jeffrey Staines either. He knew a smidge about him—Southern millionaire, with one of those too wide I’m-Praying-For-You Baptist smiles—and it was just enough to get him to lose interest entirely. Now that he’d passed him on to the lap of the President, though, it wasn’t his problem anymore.

Mars barely noticed the President split off. He slowed, staring dully at a TV screen in the hall. Aaron Shore’s smiling face was emblazoned on it. The rally had been a roaring success, it seemed. Aaron: his protege from times past. Look at him go. Mars had a distant feeling that on any other day he would be proud.

Mars checked his phone. No new messages from Lynn. He told himself it was a good thing.

 

* * *

 

Out of all his Presidential duties, Tom had to say that photo-ops were up there as one of the worst. There was something so phoney about them, so very political, that they left him feeling like he was wearing somebody else’s ill-fitting clothes. And the plastic smiles always left his cheeks aching. Jeffrey Staines hadn’t been the worst person Tom had gone through the motions with, though. Businessmen with millions to casually sling around weren’t usually Tom’s first pick for company, but they’d been able to make pleasant enough conversation in between the camera flashes. Good Southern manners, Tom thought, even if his smile was as plastic as the rest.

He’d even brought Tom a gift. A Bible, from a church in his hometown. Tom couldn’t lie and call himself a practicing Catholic any longer, but he had just enough of the altar boy left in him to treat it with a special kind of gratitude.

Gifts and stiff smiles aside, the photo-op had at least loosened him up for his first interview of the day. This he actually had been looking forward to. Photo-ops might be all for show, but this? Getting to talk about a bill that could actually help people? These were the rare sort of moments that made him feel like a President, not just a politician.

“The American Society of Civil Engineers has given us a D+ rating on infrastructure, and that includes everything from roads, bridges, dams, ports, schools, railways, water, energy. And they’ve also given us a list of 54000 bridges in this country that they feel are structurally unsound.” It wasn’t often these days that Tom got to talk for an unbarred twenty minutes about architecture, and he was going to indulge in it for all it was worth. Only a month into campaigning and it was already running him ragged—for the first time since it begun, Tom was speaking without feeling unbearably fake about it.

Roger Fewkes didn’t seem to have caught his enthusiasm. The journalist was sitting across from him with a politely glazed expression. The tiniest ebb of frustration ebbed up within; Tom had a high tolerance for naysayers and apathetics of all sorts these days, but it was hard not to get annoyed when it was this blatant. “Well, minus one. The bridge from Fayetteville, North Carolina was on that list,” he added pointedly. A dash of pathos to wake his journalist up. Roger grimaced, and Tom felt grimly satisfied.

“Nineteen senseless deaths because we, the government, couldn’t come together and perform our most basic responsibility, which is to protect its citizens,” he continued gravely. “But this bill is about rebuilding again, nationwide.”

The gentle hum of a vibrating phone from inside Roger’s jacket cut between them. Tom kept talking as the journalist furtively checked it.

“When you think of some of the iconic structures across this land; the Brooklyn Bridge, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Hoover Dam, imagined by imaginary mavericks, well...“

There it was! A light had finally gone off in Roger’s eyes. Alright, well, Tom hadn’t expected listing landmarks to do the trick, but whatever worked, he supposed—

“CNN is reporting you met with a key investor in your P3 fund earlier today, Jeffrey Staines,” Roger cut in as Tom took a breath. Oh. So this excitement was something else entirely. “Is that true, sir?”

“Yes, that’s correct,” Tom said, measured even as he tried to figure out why that made such pressing news. Foreboding lurked in his gut.

Roger pushed on, now suddenly leaning forward with all the interest in the world. “Mr Staines has been an outspoken advocate for conversion, or ex-gay, therapy, and has invested funds in organisations that promote this form of therapy in the past. You condone this practice, Mr President?”

Even standing behind him as he was, Tom could sense Mars tensing up. He fought the urge to spin around and start asking questions of his own. Namely: how the fuck had this been allowed to happen? Damn it, Tom should’ve known. Southern manners his ass.

His momentary silence, he hoped, was coming off as a thoughtful pause. Tom had gotten extraordinarily good at manufacturing those. This was a time he actually needed it though. Conversion therapy...Tom knew what it was, of course, but only in the vague, textbook way he understood all policy issues that hadn’t seen the light of day in the 3 years he’d been President. Just the sound of it, though, left a grimy stain in his mind.

“No,” Tom finally sighed, and he could hear Mars shifting behind him. “Of course I don’t. I am by no means an expert on this issue, but I do know that forcing people deny fundamental truths about themselves is nothing short of cruel. I have an 11 year old daughter and an 18 year old son. I can’t imagine them being forced into that position just because of who they loved.” Roger listened hawkishly. Tom could only hope that, in lieu of actual talking points, speaking from the heart would be enough to get him through this. He meant every word he said. “I think conversion therapy is barbaric. I can only hope that Mr Staines grows in compassion and true Christian values to see that too.”

Roger nodded solemnly. Inside, Tom relaxed a fraction. In terms of curveballs, he thought he’d handled that decently. Now he just had to see about cutting Jeffrey Staines out of any investments, now or ever—

Roger glanced down at his phone again. “Do you have any comment on the suicide of Brianna Davis, then?”

Tom’s stomach plummeted. Was it too much to ask for just one easy day?

 

* * *

 

Nadia flew down the corridor the moment she saw the telltale flash of glasses that meant the Chief of Staff was about. For a man who had an ability to be everywhere at once that she swore was at least partially supernatural, he’d been impressively aloof today. The day, of course, when Nadia needed to talk to him most. She’d been hunting him from the moment she’d heard that Jeffrey Staines was was in the White House.

 _Jeffrey Staines_. Yeah, he sure was a stain on something. Nadia knew his type from the moment she’d laid eyes on his photo; that glossy grin, those shark eyes. Word around was that he’d even brought the President a Bible. Posturing bastard. Considering what had happened that morning, Nadia didn’t know how anyone could get more distasteful.

The news about the suicide of a teenage girl had just gone viral. Brianna Davis had taken a bottle of pills early this morning, but not before posting a suicide note talking about how she’d been forced into conversion therapy, how it had made her hate every atom of herself, made her want to die. And about how nobody seemed to care that this was allowed to happen to kids like her. The letter was a manifesto of spitting rage and grief and teenage hopelessness; it had forced Nadia to take a breather after reading it. And now there was a man with links to the biggest ex-gay organisation in America standing in the Oval Office, snapping pics with the President. Nadia didn’t have to be an expert in handling optics to know that this was bad. Apparently, though, Mars hadn’t gotten the memo.

Brianna Davis’ smiling Facebook photo popped up behind her eyes as abruptly as it’d popped up on her feed this morning. A sickening rush of fury propelled her forward, nearly tripping on Mars’ heels.

“Uh, Mars?” He wasn’t even looking at her, powering forward without a break in his stride. “The President met with Jeffrey Staines this morning.”

“I know.”

Nadia kept pace with his breakneck speed, unperturbed. “Okay, well he used to be on the board of Exodus International. That was basically the biggest ex-gay organisation in America before 2013.” In case she hadn’t been clear enough, she added pointedly: “You have read the news, right?“

Even if he hadn’t, Nadia had to question why the President would want to be posing pretty with a guy like Staines anyway, money or no money—but hey, that was just her.

Mars sighed like a deflating tire, but Nadia wasn’t too worried. She knew the exact cadence of a Nadia-induced sigh by now, and this wasn’t it. Maybe—hopefully—the situation they were all now in was actually getting to him. “Didn’t need to,” he muttered, giving her a curt nod of thanks anyway. “We’re dealing with it right now. Starting with firing the idiot who vetted him,” he added on acidly.

There was another look. Oh, she knew that one: the _shoo_ look. Nadia chewed her lip, squeezing her binder close to her chest. It had all her research; data and figures neatly graphed and printed. She was prepared for this. This was why she’d been looking for Mars in the first place.

“You should take me with you,” she burst out. That actually got Mars to stop. His eyebrows were raised; flat, dubious pencil lines that looked groomed specifically to intimidate. Nadia stuck her chin up instead. “How much do you actually know about conversion therapy? An NGO I did work with supported survivors.”

The intimidation-brows went lower, lower, lower, as he stared her down. Finally, he gave her a quick head jerk. “Let’s go.”

Nadia waited until he was turned around and a good few steps ahead before she did a fist pump.

 

* * *

 

“It’s 2018, we all know the science. People can’t change their sexual orientation.”

The President had his feet up on the Resolute desk. It should have made him look irreverent, but if anything it made him look even more powerful; a sprawling big cat with a growl in his throat. Nadia was gratified by the dangerous tone in his voice. The whole room was bristling with tension: on the other side of the desk, Mars stood cross-armed with granite features. Seth was seated on the couch, and since she’d met him, Nadia had never seen him look so stormy. Her binder, she could feel, was already leaving red marks across her arms from how tightly she was squeezing it.

Mars cut the silence. “Not according to fundamentalists. The administration needs to be sensitive to religious beliefs, sir.” He didn’t even try to hide the curdled disdain in his voice. The President’s eyes flashed.

“The hell we do,” he snapped. “I was raised Christian too, but this is a human rights issue. These people are inflicting emotional abuse on gay teenagers.”

“Don’t forget the bisexuals,” Seth muttered dryly from behind them. Nadia turned to look at him and he met her eyes with a tight smile. His sardonic little interjection had been low enough that she wouldn’t be surprised if the others hadn’t heard him, but she could see clearly how his fists were clenched tightly atop his knees. It took Nadia by more surprise than any sudden outburst would have.

“Gender diverse people as well,” she added on, turning back to Mars and the President. “It’s not just religious organisations either. Or just teenagers.”

Up until this point in the meeting, Nadia hadn’t been entirely sure if anybody else had actually noticed her. Not so now. Three sets of eyes locked in on her, and she only hoped to god she wasn’t going red. The President frowned at her, not unkindly. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Oh, um—“ Nadia’s heart flipped. “Nadia Espinosa, Deputy-Director of Social Innovation and Communications.” She ducked her head, letting some loose curls cover up the tips of her ears that she could feel for sure were burning. “It’s an honour to meet you, Mr President.”

When he spoke again, the President’s voice had eased up a fraction. “Well, Ms Espinosa, could you please explain what exactly it is we’re dealing with?”

Nadia was pretty sure her heart had fallen out of her chest. This was what she’d wanted, had been vying for since the moment she’d set foot in the White House, but that kind of self-indulgent daydream and the reality of being called on to give the President counsel were two entirely different things. She dared a quick glance at Mars: his face was blank, but those eyebrows of his gave a pointed twitch. “Uh, well...” she cleared her throat, burrowing into the comfort of her own knowledge. Out came the contents of her binder, handed over to the President without, thank god, a single tremor. “It’s practiced across all religions, races, and socioeconomic classes,” she said as he peered down at her tables of data, colour coded for convenience. “And like I said, it’s not exclusive to faith groups, but they make up the majority of cases. That’s why you hear about it most in southern states; the Bible Belt. Mississippi, Alabama—“ she winced self consciously—“Texas.”

Where she and Aaron had grown up, dusty, drowsy Breckenridge, was exactly the image of Texas everyone had in their heads, for better and for worse. She remembered rowdy family potlucks and fireworks on the Fourth of July and singing hymns in the church choir with her mother’s cross around her neck. She also remembered sitting in mass and listening to fire-and-brimstone sermons that spoke more about hate than love. She’d heard the whispers about conversion therapy as well; that dirty little secret they all kept in their back pocket. That’s why she’d volunteered at Truth Wins Out during college—that second-hand guilt that still lingered. That was her community, spewing those beliefs. That was even some of her family.

As she spoke, the President put on his glasses and peered through the pages of data on his desk. He stopped when he reached the first page: it was a printed copy of Brianna Davis’ suicide note. He ran his finger down, and she could see his lips silently forming the words beneath. _I know now that my family will never accept the truth of who I am, and this is not something I can live with any longer..._

“What about Brianna Davis?” he asked softly.

Seth, still stiff and surly, rose from the couch at that. “Uh, from a Baptist family in Arkansas,” he said. “She came out as gay last year and they put her through a centre called Faith, Strength, Love for six months, to, uh, “free her mind of sin.” So, she....well.”

Mars frowned. “Most teen suicides don’t get this much attention.”

Seth shrugged. “Apparently she had a pretty big social media following. Instagram, Tumblr, Twitter...The post went up on her Facebook early this morning and it got circulating quickly. People are calling it the next Leelah Alcorn.”

His gaze skirted them all, landing unflinchingly on the President. “She was fourteen.”

Those words left a somber hollow in the room. The President brushed his fingers over the photo Nadia had felt obligated to include. Brianna had rosy cheeks and dimples. She still wore braces. At that moment, staring down at that girl, Tom looked less like a President and everything like a father. “Jesus,” he murmured. “Only a little older than Penny.” He looked up at Nadia, aghast. “And this is completely legal?”

She nodded. “In 37 states, yes. And in the 13 that have banned it, the protections only extend to minors.” There was a quiver that ran through the length of her words, just barely hidden under her tongue. Reading statistics was enough to get angry over, but saying this stuff out loud, with a teenage girl’s last words lying on a desk between them, it seemed impossible not to be fucking furious. With the steely line of the President’s frown, he seemed to agree.

“We need to do something,” he said decisively. They all looked at each other. Nadia was damn near vibrating on her toes.

Mars spoke up. “What you need to do is a crapload of interviews—“

“We need a nationwide ban!” Nadia burst out, a split second behind him. Once again, all eyes were on her, and she winced, squeaking out a “sorry!” before clamping her mouth shut for good. The President was, to her utter mortification, staring at her with eyebrows raised. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Seth smiling.

Mars gave her a long, hard look that left her insides squirming before continuing. “You need,” he said emphatically, “to keep going through your Infrastructure interviews. Don’t bring it up. Either this girl’s death or your meeting with Staines would have barely caught any media buzz on their own; it’s only because they happened on the same day that you’ll get any fire. So we want to give this as little oxygen as possible, let it burn out by itself.”

Seth snorted dubiously. “President Welcomes Man Complicit In Teen Suicide Into Oval Office, or Road Construction. Which story do you think they’re gonna run with?”

Nadia had never seen Mars look so exasperated as when he glared at Seth. “Then steer them clear as long as possible.” He turned back to the President. “You’re announcing Infrastructure tomorrow; the last thing you want is this attached to it.”

The President looked to Seth, who nodded slowly. “We can run interference, try to keep eyes on the bill.”

“Good, do that.” With a nod, they were dismissed. Nadia fought the urge to dart first out the door, instead forcing herself to walk primly in line behind Seth and Mars. _You’ve drawn enough attention to yourself for one day, don’t do anything else—_

“Ms Espinosa, a second.”

 _Shit_.

Nadia did a slow 180, face frozen in sheepish grace as she beheld the President, now standing, giving her an appraising once over. The door closed behind them. With her hands clasped anxiously in front of her, she felt like she was in Catholic school all over again.

The President dropped his gaze, looking instead upon her binder. He thumbed through document after document with a careful hand.

“Nadia Espinosa,” he murmured in thought, then looked back up, straightening his glasses as if to see her clearer. “You’re Aaron’s cousin, right?”

It shouldn’t have been a surprise that the President knew that she was related to his new VP-to-be, but Nadia still found herself caught off guard. “Yes, sir.”

He chuckled under his breath. “I could have guessed. You have his straightforwardness.” He squinted at her. “Though I don’t think he’s ever been quite as blunt as you.”

If she was let go here, today, a month after starting her job, Nadia thought desperately, at least she could say she was fired by the President himself? That was a little impressive, right?

“Mr President, I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—“ she started, a spew of syllables, but he just shook his head, holding up a hand with a smile.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. I appreciate having staff that speak their mind.” Nadia deflated—actually, she was pretty sure she blacked out for half a second as her brain snapped right back out of panic mode. When she came to, the President was back to reading Brianna’s note.

He sighed. “A national ban, you think?”

Nadia swallowed, but her voice was steady as she answered. “Yes, sir. More and more states are bringing in bans, but they’re not quick, or—to be frank—comprehensive enough. People keep slipping through the cracks. And, well—” she twisted her hands. “We’d need to go beyond just a ban. A lot of these groups operate secretly anyway, so education programs tackling homophobic misconceptions are also...needed...” she trailed off. Was this overstepping?

The President didn’t seem to think so. He folded the letter with a careful reverence. His voice was heavy. “Well, Ms Espinosa, I think you might be right.”

 

* * *

 

If Kendra could have predicted how her days would be spent two months ago, it certainly wouldn’t have involved having to reapply her makeup for the third time that day to stop her face from looking like a waxwork in the sun after sitting under the glare of studio lights for yet another interview. If she had, she would’ve given Lyor a smack that he’d still be feeling now.

In fairness, it wasn’t as if he’d predicted this either. Lyor had told her last week—from a safe, smack-free distance—that he wasn’t booking her in because he wanted her in every single interview involving Trey, but because he _very much_ needed her. Her boyfriend, as they’d both discovered fairly quickly, was an utter hot mess when it came to cameras. Kendra was there as damage control. It was a role that she’d been dubious about, but as much as it made her restless, Kendra discovered she was pretty damn good at interviews. All she had to do was treat the journalist as if they were a particularly testy judge, and give Trey’s hand a warning squeeze if he repeated the same terrible joke more than three times.

What she could never forgive these interviews for, though, was tearing her away from her work. Five minutes after escaping, just from a quick scroll through her news feed— _President Questioned About Connections To Conversion Therapy Supporters_ , and right underneath: _Arkansas Teen Takes Own Life, Blames Ex-Gay Treatments_ —she knew that they were going to have a big few days ahead of them.

If this was any other job, Kendra wouldn’t be too concerned. Optics weren’t her purview, after all. But she’d worked for Tom Kirkman for a year now; she knew all too well how reactive he could be. This was going to cause some legal upheaval, she just knew it. The real surprise was that she hadn’t actually been called in yet.

It was as that thought crossed her mind that she saw the silhouette of a familiar, infuriating figure up ahead. That would fucking do it, she seethed silently as she made her slow approach to the Chief of Staff. If this was Mars putting the brakes on her again, telling the President not to get her involved—

Mars ducked out of sight. Kendra slowed, frowning. She’d never seen the Mars quite like this before. Before he’d turned away, he’d caught a glimpse of his face, taut with slow boiling agony. Slowly, she approached.

Mars was tucked into an alcove, back a rigid shield against the world as he leaned further into the wall to contain his words. His voice was hushed, but even from her cautious distance Kendra could still make out his urgency.

“I am at work,” he hissed, scrubbing an agitated hand across his brows. There were a few seconds of silence, save the vague crackling of frenzied speech Kendra caught from the phone pressed to his ear. When he spoke again, his voice was strained beyond recognition. “Lynn, calm down, okay? Listen to me. Leave the store. Go home.”

Kendra had a cold, tense weight in her stomach, the acutely uncomfortable sensation of overhearing something you know is definitely not meant for you. Whatever was going on with Mars in his wife—and if the rumours she’d heard about Lynn Harper were true, then it couldn’t be anything good—wasn’t her business. She should leave, but moving now would mean showing she’d been listening all this time. Kendra stayed rooted to the spot.

“O-Okay—“ Mars’ voice broke. Kendra’s gut churned. “Just do not do anything else. I’m leaving now.”

He hung up. Kendra desperately tried to find anything else to look at, but as he swung around their eyes couldn’t help but meet. Kendra froze, and Mars froze too, seemingly sizing her up with his mouth poised and ready to say something; yell, most probably. Kendra felt like she should apologise, but even that seemed like it would be breaking some unspoken, uncrossable boundary.

He didn’t say anything at all, just broke their gaze and stormed off down the hall. Kendra watched his retreating back, listening to his fading footsteps long after he was out of sight; wondering. A twinge of sympathy rose up, sharp and shocking, within her.

She shook her head, and took off again. Maybe Mars deserved her sympathy, but he sure as hell didn’t need her nosing in on his private business. There were other things she actually did need to involve herself in today.

 

* * *

 

“Holy hell, Tricia, this is amazing.”

Seth was coordinating Operation ‘Save The President’s Ass From The Press.’ It was a battle that he had fought many, many times; one with no true victories and no clear end in sight. The press corps were the ‘take no prisoners’ type, after all. Lucky for him, he had a new secret weapon they didn’t know about yet. A weapon by the name of Tricia Simms.

She was holding up her tablet for him—he was 99% sure he’d never seen her without it, actually—as it played an app trailer that looked far more epic than it had any right to, considering it had been in production for little over a month. Infrastruct, she’d called it. It was something that the Communications team had been tinkering with, but Seth hadn’t had much to do with it at all. Something he was grateful for; he’d never have been able to come up with something this good.

“This is just the trailer,” Tricia explained almost apologetically, but Seth didn’t miss the proud smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “When you open the app, it’ll be like playing SimCity. You can cruise through your own community, tap repairs that are needed, projects you want funded...”

Seth nodded, satisfied, and gave his newest hire a pat on the shoulder. “This’ll be a diversion for sure. Might even win us a few votes.”

Tricia stared down at the trailer thoughtfully before switching it off and tucking it away in her bag. “Yeah, I could’ve used that on myself in the last election,” she murmured. Seth chuckled.

Tricia didn’t laugh back. She just stared at him, blinking solemnly.

Seth’s laughter died a quick and painful death. “Oh—you’re serious.” Tricia’s silence said volumes. Seth gaped at her incredulously. “You’re _serious_? You didn’t vote?”

Tricia’s brows furrowed earnestly as she shouldered her satchel. “I can’t vote for someone I don’t believe in.”

“Yes you can!” Seth exclaimed, fighting the urge to look around to see if anyone else was catching this crazy-talk. “It’s called voting against the person you don’t believe in more!”

Her nose wrinkled at that, and she gave him a slyly impatient look, as if he was the one not getting the point. “They were both terrible,” she said emphatically. “Neither of them addressed the issues facing the black community. Or...any marginalised community, for that matter.” Seth opened his mouth to protest—he’d pick the ignorant asshole who wasn’t going to worsen the nation’s debt over the one who was any day—but before he could, Tricia hastily cut in. “Have you...read Brianna Davis’ suicide letter?”

Seth’s throat dried up. He looked away. The letter had appeared in his feed, far too early for him to have been prepared for it. He was Director of Communications, he had to be kept up to date on any breaking news that could impact on the administration but he hadn’t...he hadn’t wanted to read this. He talked about tragedies every day, but this one had hooked its claws into him. His words to the President echoed in the back of his own throat. _Fourteen. She was fourteen._

He remembered being fourteen and feeling like the whole world was against him. He’d never been forced into conversion therapy, and he’d never written a note, but her words still rubbed stingingly into the papercuts of his subconscious; too close, far too close, to home.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I have.”

Tricia swallowed. “She said that all governments do is argue about stupid shit while real people like her are hurting every day. That they do nothing but ignore people like her.” She spoke softly, but there was a sandpaper edge to her voice. “She was fourteen and she could see that.” She looked piercingly at him, licking her lips agitatedly. “I mean—I don’t wanna overstep,“ she said carefully. “But...you can’t be happy with the way the LGBTQ community has just been pushed to the side—“

Her words choked away as Seth’s eyebrows shot up. It wasn’t that he was still in the closet at work, or anywhere, really. It was just that his being bisexual never came up unless it needed to, and that was the way he liked it. He was a long way away from the schoolyard teasing—or tense family meetings—of his past, but Seth still felt soothed by the control. He’d never had someone just know before. It left him wobbling off kilter; off script.

“I-I’m sorry,” Tricia stammered, wide eyed and guilty. “I didn’t mean to assume. It’s just—I’ve seen the way you look at—well, I don’t know, I just thought, maybe—“

The poor kid looked on the verge of passing out, and Seth had to take pity on her. “Hey, hey, Tricia, it’s fine. Just took me by surprise, is all,” he said, laying a reassuring hand on her arm. He smiled awkwardly. “You’re right.”

She still looked sorry, but not like she was done talking. Her fingers flexed against the strap of her satchel. “Well...how often have you felt like your voice is actually heard around here?”

Seth...didn’t know what to say to that. He stumbled for an answer, but Tricia didn’t seem to expect one; she just left him with his spinning thoughts as she quietly excused herself. He supposed it didn’t really matter, did it? He was in Communications. His voice was only there to make sure the voices that actually counted were heard. Not to be blasé, but he was basically paid to be a glorified megaphone: he projected the message, and stood back to let the magic happen. Standing on the sidelines. Watching.

The thought shouldn’t have left him as discontented as it did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conversion therapy statistics were adjusted for the date of the chapter. As of right now, 19 US states have banned it. (In Australia, where I’m from, it’s only being banned in 1 state. Conversion therapy is evil, folks.)


	8. #aspeechtoremember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom, Emily and Lyor face their first major dilemma in the campaign, which stirs up more issues than expected. Meanwhile, Aaron and Kendra worry about Nadia’s new significance in the White House.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeesh, sorry guys. This could have been posted half a week ago, but then a combination of final exams and eye strain stopped any writing in its tracks.
> 
> TW: use of Q-slur (though not in an offensive context)

**July 13th, 2018**

Overall, Kendra’s prediction was—as they tended to be—correct. Barely a day since conversion therapy had heated the political waters and she had been summoned to the Oval Office to discuss “possibilities.” Kendra admired the President’s swiftness, and she definitely appreciated the fact that he actually remembered that part of her duties as White House Counsel was to be a legal consult. One thing she hadn’t wagered on—though, really, she probably should have—was walking in to find she’d be joined by Nadia Espinosa.

“Nadia has already briefed me on the broader issue,” Tom said, as Kendra side-eyed the kid with a furiously polite smile. “I just need you to clarify some finer legal technicalities in the process of banning this...”

Nadia—the eternal Nadia, who had been at Mars’ heels since she’d gotten here, and sniffing around Kendra’s staff with the rambunctiousness of an oversized puppy—was beaming. This must be a dream come true for her. And she was clearly prepared for it; the girl knew her stuff. For every point Kendra brought up about states’ regulations or the merits of an executive order versus legislation, she had an answer. The President, too, seemed caught up in her enthusiasm—the entire conversation felt like a series of mental high fives between the two of them.

It was almost as though Kendra wasn’t needed. Except, of course, to be the mood-killer warning about the difficulties they’d face in introducing such broad restrictions for mental health licensing; the inevitable pushback they’d receive. Nadia’s response to that was almost a hand-wave. She was one of those, it seemed, who had the rose-tinted view that just the right legislation would fix all their problems. As a lawyer, Kendra felt miserably qualified to say that this was the opposite of the truth.

Kendra couldn’t begrudge the girl her enthusiasm, really. She’d been that kid once—hell, everyone in this building—even their most gleeful cynics, like Lyor—had probably been that kid once. Finally being at the big kids’ table, feeling like you were making the world a better place; it was so easy to assume that the moral arc of the universe would simply nudge your righteous intentions into tangible effect.

Unfortunately, Kendra reflected as her words—as they always seemed to—fell on flat ears, it was exactly that sort of attitude that made her job impossible.

“Isn’t this great?” Nadia whispered to her as they left the office, once everything had been decided. She was bashful as she stared up at Kendra, almost as starry-eyed as she had been with the President, which wasn’t something Kendra was much used to either. “We’ve done so much today.”

Kendra didn’t feel like she’d done much of anything at all. She didn’t even feel like either of them had heard a word she’d said, not with Nadia and her enthusiasm centred in the room like an exploding star.

Okay, maybe she could begrudge the kid, just a little.

 

* * *

 

Emily was hard at work.

Correction: Emily was willing herself to be hard at work, all the while the glare of her computer screen tunnelled it’s way through to the back of her skull and made her wish for a fistful of aspirin. As it turned out, being a campaign aide wasn’t all that glamorous—who knew? Stuck behind a desk, collating the polling data that had been flooding in with a fresh ferocity since conversion therapy had become the hot-button topic of the day, Emily knew she should be feeling grateful—a month ago, she’d have even pounced on a job in the mail room of the President had offered it. Now, she reckoned she could stand some Florida sun.

Indulging herself with that thought, Emily snuck a quick glance down at her phone, and the photo her mum had sent through this morning: her with an exaggerated model grin as she showed off one of her new auburn wigs. Its vibrancy made her look more anemic than anything, but the goofy smile made Emily’s heart squeeze with fondness.

A single sharp rap sounded on the door of her corner office and she slipped her phone away. It was Lyor’s signature greeting, which was a mystery since he should have been in a car heading to Air Force One. The President was going to be announcing the new nationwide infrastructure revitalisation initiative at the groundbreaking site for the repairs of the collapsed North Carolina bridge. As in, actually meaningful work.

At least there’d be lots of sound bites to compile. That would spice up he day a little.

“We’re leaving for North Carolina,” Lyor said.

_Thanks for rubbing it in_. Emily nodded politely, eyes already drifting back to her screen. _71% of responders were opposed to conversion therapy for minors; at least that was something—_

“Chop, chop.” Lyor clicked his tongue impatiently. “We’ll be taking off soon.”

Emily blinked. The “we” from his last sentence was suddenly very obvious. And very suspicious. “You want me to come,” she said flatly, mouth playing catch up with her stunned brain. “Why?”

Since his laying down of the law, she and Lyor had fallen into an uneasy arrangement of her keeping her head down and him keeping his constant scrutiny covert in return. Letting her be a part of on-site campaigning hadn’t been part of the deal. She searched Lyor’s face for some kind of trick. It was infuriatingly blank.

“I can’t keep an eye on you in North Carolina if you’re here,” he said.

And there it was. Emily bit the inside of her cheek to hold back her scowl. What did Lyor honestly think she was going to do without supervision; hack his computer? “So this is you keeping me on a leash?”

He actually smiled at that. “Better than me locking you in the kennel.”

Smug bastard. Still, Emily wasn’t about to turn up her nose at a reprieve from house arrest. If he wanted to keep her under surveillance; fine. He could spend the day watching her being a competent goddamn professional. Maybe she’d finally get these kid-gloves taken off.

Casting one last spurned look at her computer, Emily scooped up her bag and followed Lyor out the door, his long strides making quick work of the span of the office. Emily’s weren’t quite as eager. She slowed at the doorframe.

“Lyor,” she called. He turned obligingly, and she crossed her arms. “I might be working for you now, and you’re clearly not impressed about it, but we’re going out there to a job, and I’m going to do it. I’m not just going to be your shadow, and I definitely won’t be your yes-man.”

His over-the-shoulder look was appraising. Emily refused to break her gaze. She didn’t want to think she cared about Lyor’s esteem of her after what a pain he’d been, but she still waited with bated breath for the eye roll, the dismissive return. The look in his eyes though, it wasn’t scorn. Emily didn’t know what to make of it.

His lips twitched. “I couldn’t imagine it.”

 

* * *

 

Going back home to Texas had been nice, Aaron reflected. And acting for the first time as an actual campaigning Vice President had been a thrill he never could’ve prepared himself for. But having his feet back on D.C ground, walking through the door to his office, felt just as much like coming home now, and he was glad to be back. And nothing screamed that he was back home more than being full-body tackled by his little cousin.

Still drowsy, the collision nearly bowled Aaron off his feet. Nadia still hugged the way she had as a toddler; all arms and all enthusiasm. The force knocked a chuckle out of his, and he bemusedly returned the embrace. They’d talked on the phone yesterday, after he’d woken from the most insistent sleep he’d had in months, so it wasn’t as though this was his welcome home. This good mood was something else.

He finally pulled back, holding Nadia at arms length. Nadia was beaming; excitement rolling off her. “Guess who got the President to agree to legislation based on my advice?” she announced grandly, flicking her hair back. “Can I get a hell yeah!”

Aaron blinked. She’d sounded energised when he’d called her, radiating the Nadia-buzz he knew meant she’d thrown herself into a new project. He hadn’t expected this.

This had to be something to do with the conversion therapy story. That was exactly the sort of issue that Nadia would pour her heart into—and exactly the sort of controversy that Congress would balk at. Nadia might have the unstoppable enthusiasm of a tidal wave, and the President the steely dedication, to try and bludgeon this into legislation, but Aaron had been in this town long enough to know not to hold his breath.

Nadia must have sensed his hesitation, and her brow crinkled. “What?”

Aaron grimaced, squeezing the shoulders that had just become wiry-tense under his hands. “Legislation like this—it can be tricky. You have to get through Congress first. It’s not a done deal yet.”

“I _know_ that,” she said, in a way that made Aaron think that she did not, in fact, know that; not really. “But we’re committed. That’s as good a start as any, right?” Her clear, sunny eyes made the idea of not winning seem impossible.

It was a look that Aaron didn’t want to be responsible for stamping out. He’d have to let Congress do that in its own time, if it dared. “I—Yeah,” he said, smiling half heartedly. “That’s...really great, Nadia.”

She sighed happily. “I made a real difference today. This bill is gonna help a lot of people. It feels good.”

Aaron smiled as she leaned contentedly next to him against his desk. D.C was a swamp of cynicism. Nadia would figure that out for herself soon enough, but for now the bright spark in her eyes was a refreshing change. “I’m proud of you,” he murmured, then shot her a grin, nudging her with a shoulder. “Hey, you’re really making waves. Maybe they got the wrong guy for the job—Vice President Nadia Espinosa sounds pretty good, doesn’t it?”

Nadia rolled her eyes, nudging him right back. “No, I could never deprive the country of el politico mas guapo.” She made a soothing little sound as Aaron scoffed. “You really were great,” she said. “I’m proud of you too, primo.”

Aaron didn’t often let himself think this, but as he shared another smile with his cousin, he got the feeling that for once everything was going right.

 

* * *

 

“...When the goal is the greater good, people from all levels of government can work together to achieve it.”

Emily nodded along as Tom tested out his speech. It was sensible, she thought, to lend the ear of the campaign to anything Tom had to say today. It was important to take initiative on these things. It didn’t hurt that sitting like this with Seth and Tom was a comfort in its familiarity; something that ran thin in the campaign office. It was so easy to slip into old habits; giving Tom advice, debating word choices with Seth. It took her back to a time before...

With a jaunty little greeting, Lyor came through the door, and Emily heaved an internal sigh.

Well. Before that.

Not two steps into the room, Lyor squawked like an undignified parrot. “Why aren’t you wearing any of the clothes I bought you?”

Tom breathed through his nose in a way that told Emily that this was far from the first time he’d had this argument. She almost didn’t want to know. _Seriously_? she mouthed to Seth, who smirked right back, even if he seemed to have brightened up a little at Lyor’s presence. Those two becoming friends really was the twist of the century.

“They weren’t me,” Tom was saying.

“It was North Carolina you.”

Any more spluttering from Lyor was swiftly cut off as Seth snagged his elbow. “Alright, maestro. We need to lock down his remarks for the speech, then he’s all yours,” Seth said, voice all well practiced sweet-talking cut through with a sardonic edge. It was enough to get Lyor to allow himself to, still grumbling, be pulled down into the other seat. Emily went to shoot Seth a gratified look, but he was already distracted by his captive; whispering furtively back and forth.

“Did you really pick out clothes for him?”

“He needs to dress right.”

“Have you seen what you’re wearing?”

“Yes, I managed to avoid a skinny tie, because unlike you I dress in front of a mirror—“

Emily cleared her throat pointedly, feeling like a librarian. Seth and Lyor, for their part, looked like two guilty schoolboys. Seth quickly leaned back, dropping Lyor’s admittedly ugly tie from where he’d been dangling it up to the other man’s face with a sly grin. Before Emily could wonder too much about that, Tom powered on.

“It is in this spirit that I plan to introduce legislation to ban conversion therapy nationwide, establish federal law that makes it illegal to—“

“No, no, no, no, no, you can’t say that!”

All eyes, back on Lyor. Gone was the adolescent plaintiveness he’d been wearing with Seth; now he was deadly serious, jumping up again to gape at the President.

Tom exchanged a glance with Emily, frowning. “Why not?”

“States rights, religious rights, parental rights, take your pick. This is going to—“

“Save abused children,” Tom deadpanned.

Emily skewered her old friend with an incredulous glare. Lyor was a pain in the sense that he had too few social graces and too many harsh edges; he wasn’t morally deficient. Or so she’d thought. “How can you possibly have a problem with that?”

Lyor was gesticulating now; they’d really got him going. “Because it’ll cost him the election.”

Did Lyor make a sport out of being contrary for the hell of it? “That’s insane,” Emily snapped. “I’ve looked at the polling data; more people are against conversion therapy than for it.”

Lyor whirled to face her. “That data doesn’t mean anything. The people that are against it, that’s not an issue they vote on. But the people they don’t want the ban, the people who feel personally attacked by it—“ he jabbed a finger at the President, staring him down—“you can bet that every single one of them will show up to vote against you.”

Tom crossed his arms. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“It’s a knee jerk reaction to a tragedy.” Lyor was stressing every syllable. “Understandable? Yes. Pointless? Definitely. I am absolutely an advocate for you bringing down the hammer on religious nut jobs who psychologically torture children—“ and from the look of his savagely curled lip, he really was—“but that is a battle you have to fight once you’ve won. Even if Congress took this up—which they won’t,” he added with a derisive breath of laughter, “the first thing Moss would do once he inevitably gets elected is roll back every piece of legislation you pushed through on the grounds of religious freedom.”

Emily was almost bowled over by the sudden flash-flood of frustration that hit her. This wasn’t personal, this shouldn’t have felt so pressing, but goddamnit—wasn’t this what they were here for? Wasn’t this why she’d come back? To make a difference? They’d done that, once upon a time, she was sure of it. Even when she’d...lost her way, she’d been helping pave that path. She and Tom—they had done that.

Of the people, by the people, for the people. Tom had named that one of his favourite quotes once. Well, here the people were.

She turned to Tom, tight lipped. “You have the power and the platform to help these people.”

Lyor followed suit. “Embarking on a kamikaze mission to make yourself feel better isn’t going to help anyone except Moss.”

The tight little circle they’d formed was almost suffocating. Tom looked between them, but his gaze, Emily could tell, was inward; the scales in his mind were working. Emily watched with bated breath, waiting for the words she knew he was forming: _you’re right, Emily, of course we have to help._

“Seth, what do you think?” he said instead, breaking the circle. Seth was still sitting on the sidelines, watching the back and forth like a tennis match.

His eyes flicked back and forth: Emily, Lyor, Emily, Lyor. “They’re both right.”

“Oh, come on—“ Emily couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She shouldn’t even be the one angry here. “You of all people should be with me on this. How can you not stand up for the people in your own community?”

In the ringing silence that followed, Emily realised just how loud her own voice had been. Awkwardness, thick as syrup, filled up the space it had left. Tom’s faced had creased in confusion, and he turned to Seth, mouth open in an unspoken question. Seth had been squirming a little since Tom had dragged him into the debate, but now he was rock-solid still, like even his lungs were caught up in surprise. “Um,” was all he offered. His eyes flicked rapidly to Tom, as if sizing up his expression, before meeting Emily’s with an incredulous hurt that made her want to take a step back.

“Mm. I’m also queer,” Lyor said flatly. “It doesn’t make my point any less valid.”

They all turned to him; Emily’s cheeks darkened, Tom just looking more surprised. The only one who didn’t look shocked was Seth, who was still flushed. Lyor, though, was all nonchalance. He met Emily’s embarrassed gaze coolly.

After all the years they’d known each other, Emily probably should have known that, but honestly, the idea of Lyor having a sexuality at all had always been sort of a nebulous void in her head. Even finding out that he was “only technically” married to an actual human woman had been a shock. Then again, who could ever figure out what was going on inside that head, really?

With Lyor’s implicit confirmation, Tom’s face cleared, though there was still a wince of embarrassment he couldn’t shake from the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise either of you were...”

“It’s fine, sir,” Seth said, eyes still on Emily. “You had no reason to know.”

Emily wanted to scrub the last ten seconds off her skin, pick off the gazes of Seth and Lyor she could feel lingering still, and get back to the original point before things had gotten so confused and messy. Lyor’s coming out aside, she was still right and she knew it. “You have the chance to do the right thing, sir,” she said archily. “Take it.”

Tom nodded solemnly. She had to be satisfied with that—she knew Tom after all, she knew what that meant without words. Sensing that, campaign wise, the President had all he needed, and desperate to get out of that now suffocating room, Emily followed Lyor out the door. He didn’t wait for her, just cast back a brief look: not annoyance, like she’d expected. If she didn’t know better, she’d say it was disappointment.

Before she had time to unpack that, a hand grabbing her arm from behind. She jerked around.

“Thanks for that,” Seth hissed.

Emily’s eyebrows shot up. Seth hadn’t taken that tone with her since they dated; and even then, only once or twice. It had usually rang more placating. He’d always tried to calm their fights. He’d never looked to start one before.

“Okay,” she said slowly as Seth shut the door to the President’s quarters, leaving them insulated in the little passageway. “I’m sorry for putting you on the spot like that, but—“

Seth’s mouth made a little ‘o’ of incredulity. He was looking at her like he was wondering if maybe she was a moron, and Emily instinctively bristled. “That’s not—“ he cut himself off, dropping his voice low. “You just outed me to the President without my permission.”

Her cobbled defence slithered back down her throat, replaced with sheer bafflement. That was Seth’s problem? Seriously? She knew he wasn’t exactly waving a bisexual flag around, but he wasn’t ashamed, either. He’d told her so himself, in that awkward conversation they’d had a month or so after getting together discussing their dating history, when she’d found out he’d dated a George in college and asked why she didn’t already know this about him. “I’m not ashamed,” he’d said hotly, like she was accusing him of something. “It’s just never come up with you before.” Well, it had come up now, hadn’t it? Besides, the idea of Seth expecting a bad reaction from Tom of all people was almost laughable.

“The President is the furthest thing from homophobic,” she said, reassurance leaking through her honest confusion. “You have to know you have nothing to worry about.”

He shook his head. “It’s about the choice. _My_ choice.” His hand scrubbed over his chin, and through his caged fingers, so quiet it might have escaped involuntarily, slipped: “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Seth hesitated. Emily formed the words for him in her own head— _you’re straight_ , she had to assume. But there was something lurking in the unusually hard edge of his mouth, some accusation, that seemed to run deeper than that. She let her silence sit as a challenge for him to just spit it out already, and their gazes locked into that unspoken game of chicken for a moment that stretched out far too long to be comfortable, but all Seth did to break it was sigh.

“...It doesn’t matter.” He shook his head; something so resigned about it. He wasn’t quite meeting her eyes anymore. “Just—don’t do it again.”

“Okay,” Emily said, stupefied still despite herself. “Sorry.” Seth nodded stiffly and slipped back into the President’s quarters. Once the door shut behind him, she let out a huff of air. Tension with Seth—God, it really was like they were dating again. With him on the other side of the door, and Lyor lurking somewhere else, this ride had never felt more claustrophobic.

 

* * *

 

The TV in Nadia’s Office was switched on to the President’s North Carolina address, and he and Nadia had both pulled up chairs side by side to watch it. The speech had been great, inspiring, moving, even. It had been 5 minutes long—5 minutes of Aaron holding his breath, before he let himself deflate with the first thwack of shovels into dirt as the President began the groundbreaking.

No legislation had been announced.

Aaron kept his gaze set grimly on the screen, not wanting to see the reality of politics smack his cousin across the face in real time, but out of the corner of his eye he could make out how Nadia’s head had dropped to stare down at her lap; bowed in the slumped curve of an r.

“...He didn’t even bring it up,” she said softly.

Heart leaden, Aaron reached over to give his cousin’s hand a quick little squeeze. “I’m sorry, Nadia,” he murmured. More than anything, he hated that, eventually, he wouldn’t have to do this anymore. She was going to get used to disappointment.

 

* * *

 

Sunset smeared across the sky; broad brushes of orange and blushing pink. It was a serene backdrop for Air Force One to rise up against, but it didn’t leave Emily feeling any less unsettled. When she’d left the President’s office in the air after talking over the speech, she’d walked out with the comfortable confidence that Tom was going to do the right thing cushioning her steps, even if everything else about that meeting had left her shaken. She knew all his looks, and he’d had the look of a man who cared. But there had been a moment when, up there on the stage, he had turned to look at them right before ploughing on without a word about conversion therapy; the look he’d had then wasn’t one she’d ever seen on him, though she’d seen it plenty of other times over her career. That was the look of a politician.

It hadn’t suited him one bit. Inside her coat pockets, fists stuffed inside, Emily’s fingernails were working steady grooves into her palms. Was this really what she was coming back to?

She wasn’t giving her tarmac surroundings much thought, instead letting her mind float away on the watercolours in the sky above them, imagining they could take her anywhere but there, but she forced herself to look over when someone stepped into her peripheral; too close to be casual.

It was Lyor. She didn’t bother hiding her sigh.

With the orange sky reflecting off his glasses, his eyes looked as though they were lit up from the inside, twin nuclear reactors, but when he spoke his voice was perfectly mild. “If you’re trying to get back on my good side, today’s strategy was an...interesting one.”

Oh, he really wanting to do this right now, huh? Emily jerked around, realising belatedly that the movement brought her practically nose to nose with Lyor, but not caring enough to take a step back. “You must be satisfied,” she snapped. “That was what this was, right? Hoping I’d disagree with you so you could sink back into your smug self satisfaction about how I’m a blight on your campaign?”

Lyor didn’t glare back, just tilted his head. “This year has really made a cynic out of you,” he remarked dryly. “Predicting results and hoping for them are very different things, Emily.”

Whatever that meant. Not interested in extending this headache any further, she turned to where everybody else was slowly milling over to board the plane. Before she could move, though Lyor’s voice rising up behind her stilled her feet. “But, uh, if you’re planning on being the President’s Jiminy Cricket for the next 16 months, then you’ll need to develop some moral consistency of your own.”

There it was. Emily breathed through her nose, in and out, then slowly turned to skewer him with an exasperated glare. At this point, she wasn’t even offended, she was just annoyed.

“Will that well ever run dry?”

“No,” came his blithe reply, and Emily rolled her eyes. Her face settled into a frown, however, as he kept talking. “But I’m not actually talking about that.” Over the rims of his glasses, his stare was prickling in its intensity.

Emily’s stomach dropped as he lifted his chin pointedly, looking straight over her shoulder. The shift of eye line propelled her to turn as well, and she was met with the sight of Seth, looking drowsy and dimmed down on the other side of the tarmac. Even from here, Emily could see him meet her eyes. Even from here, she could see how he turned away, mouth furrowed.

Her chest tightened, and she sighed. “Save the lecture. Seth already told me off,” she said. “Anyway, I think he’s let it go, so, y’know...” she trailed off meaningfully. Hopefully he’d take the hint.

Lyor made a thoughtful noise, right at her shoulder. “He always does, when it comes to you. I don’t understand it, but then again, I’ve never been in love with you.”

Emily turned to give him a startled look, but Lyor was already strolling away, and she only caught the back of his coat. That had sounded like a reproach, low and damning, and she couldn’t help the way it seared into her like some kind of guilt that she couldn’t understand. That, in turn, left a hot flush of indignation creep under her collar.

“I really don’t think you’re in a position to moralise at me, Lyor,” she called on an impulse. “If outing him would win us votes, you’d have done it in a heartbeat.”

The only indication she got that he’d heard her was a stiffening of his slight shoulders, a pause in his stride a heartbeat long before he hurried forward. It was more of a reaction than she’d actually expected, but it didn’t leave her feeling as satisfied as it ought to have.

Nothing was as it should be in North Carolina, apparently. Before, she’d been happy to put off the inevitable of joining everyone else, but now she’d never wanted to board a plane faster, just to get out of here.

 

* * *

 

Seth reclined in the semi-darkness of the plane cabin, earphones in. He had The National on, volume so low it was like listening to rain against a window, and he let the sound of it blanket his brain as Air Force One rumbled gently around him. It would have been enough to lull him to sleep, if the flight tremors under his feet didn’t set him on edge these days. Not that he’d really want to sleep here anyway, where anyone could walk in on him. Sleep could be nice, though—it would stop him from obsessing over Emily for the next hour.

The thing is, he wished he could feel surprised, but wasn’t this just peak Em? Back when they were dating, anyway; when he’d always felt like a bit of an afterthought. It was like he had two distinct Emilys in his head: girlfriend-Emily, which had been more of a detour into a slightly sinister alternate reality, and real-Emily. That was who he’d invited back to D.C—or who he thought he had, anyway. Now, though, the two Emilys theory was folding in on itself, because it was real-Emily who’d just blown away his privacy.

It was confronting her that had really done it, when she’d stared at him with those open, empty eyes. No sneaking duplicity, no glittering malice, just the genuine inability to comprehend how she’d hurt him. It was almost gratifying, actually. He’d spent eight months of his life trying to uncover the secret of how to get through to her. All it took was this one moment, almost a year after they broke up, to realise that there was no secret.

Yep, he decided with a tired resolve. He was done making the same mistakes. He turned up his music.

It was enough to drown out all the plane’s sounds, even his own breathing. Seth didn’t even realise someone else was entering the cabin until a jacket and tie blocked his view. It was Lyor, moving his lips soundlessly. Seth yanked the earphones out.

Nonplussed, Lyor repeated himself. “The speech went well.” He looked satisfied. He was about the only person on the plane who did.

Seth rolled his shoulders; the mention of the speech was just another reminder of all the tensions that had come with it. “Yeah, it did,” he said, unenthusiastically.

“The fundamentalists can rest easy. For now.” Lyor chuckled under his breath, dropping down into the seat beside Seth in an inelegant sprawl. Lyor always sprawled, Seth noticed. Or perched stiffly; sprinted or stalked. He could never just sit, just walk. There was always an air of theatrics about him. It made it hard to keep his eyes off him. Seth almost couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed his entrance until he’d been standing right in front of him.

No _I told you so_ , he noticed, the one Seth had been unconsciously bracing himself for. No smug rant about how Emily was _causing a new kind of trouble now, wasn’t she? Broadening her horizons._ It seemed like the obvious topic of conversation between them, but Lyor didn’t appear to be interested in talking about Emily at all. Seth was grateful.

“What do you think about the President’s decision?” Lyor asked instead. Spilling over his seat space, his shirtsleeve brushed Seth’s.

It wouldn't be fair to say that he was disappointed in the President's decision. It hadn't left him feeling patriotic though; far from it. Making these tough decisions were, thankfully, not in Seth's wheelhouse. He twisted his earphone cord around his fingers as Lyor stared. “...Like I said, you and Em were both right.“

Lyor scoffed. “Don’t be boring.”

Boring? Seth raised an eyebrow. “What do you want me to say?”

“Ah, your actual opinion. I know you have one.”

Laughing, Seth let his head roll back to study the ceiling. “Does it matter? I’m just the press jockey, remember?”

“I want to know.”

There was something demanding in that tone that Seth’s gaze couldn’t refuse, and he dragged his eyes down to catch on Lyor; with his wiry frame twisted around in the chair to face him fully like a pretzel, glasses only intensifying his electric blue eyes as he stared beseechingly. It was odd; Lyor, as a rule, didn’t really...care all that much about other people’s opinions. Only Kendra’s—and, maybe, once upon a time, Emily’s. Being a part of such an exclusive club, and knowing that this probably wouldn’t have happened a few months ago, was a weighty realisation in Seth’s chest.

“I...think he made the right call,” Seth answered honestly, and something flickered across Lyor’s face. “I just wish we didn’t have to make that choice. These are real people, y’know? I mean—“ Seth grimaced—“Can’t say I loved how she went about it, but Emily kind of had a point.”

Lyor stiffened.

“That kid...” Seth continued guiltily. Maybe this was where they’d all lost their way: nobody had mentioned Brianna Davis today, not once. A little girl was dead, and they’d done nothing about it. And it was gonna keep happening, just like it could’ve....Seth swallowed. “It could’ve been me,” he admitted quietly. If he’d come out younger, if his dad had been more of a hard-ass, if either of his parents had actually bought into the faiths they’d been raised in. Maybe that situation was more of a distant hypothetical for him, but—Seth eyed Lyor, who’s eyes were dark with faraway comprehension—Lyor had been raised religious, he knew. Lyor’s father had been...awful, he suspected. That was enough. That was all it took.

“Could’ve been you,” Seth finished.

Lyor’s face was uncomfortably tight. He wore a frown—like he didn’t quite agree, or he did agree and wasn’t happy about it. “I know,” he finally said. He flattened himself back into his own seat, tipping back skyward just as Seth had. Seth had thought, before, that he looked satisfied. He still did, in a way, but it had settled down into a tiredness, a grimness. He didn’t look happy.

“He needs to win.” Seth said, quiet in his urgency. A twitch ran through Lyor; tension, then slow release, his fingers digging into the armrests, just barely catching Seth’s cuff lying next to his.

“He does.”

He flashed the grim, toothy edge of a smile—not quite to Seth, almost to himself. He wasn’t sprawling anymore; now all poised purpose, like a cat about to leap. Seth expected him to follow through and leave—had this been what he’d come for?—but instead he pulled a yellow notepad out of his jacket. Seth felt quietly, inexplicably pleased.

Lyor’s lips creased. He looked up, mouth open—before he could say anything, Seth handed him a pen. He got a startled smile in return. It was one of the nicer things he’d seen that day.

The scribbling of pen on paper and faint, under-the-breath murmuring was more than enough background noise for him. Seth didn’t put his earphones back in.

 

* * *

 

Tom always paused before walking into the Residence. Only a couple of seconds, these days; in the beginning, right After, it could be as long as ten minutes. Maybe back then he fancied the rooms a sort of Schrodinger’s Box—if he just didn’t turn the handle, didn’t look within, then maybe... He didn’t think like that anymore. Now, it was just the immovable knowledge of what he knew he would find that kept him outside. That oppressive quiet, unbroken by Penny, who would be asleep by now, or Leo, who was all the way in Stanford, or Alex. Just his own footsteps.

He sighed. No putting it off any longer. Turn the handle. Push the door open. Step inside.

Not dead silence, mercifully. The TV was on at a quiet murmur, washing out the darkened living room in an anaemic glow and lighting up Trey, sitting on the couch looking up at him. The sight was a faint surprise. Not the same as when Trey had first come back into Tom’s life, and that treacherous part of him every day expected to find that his little brother had gotten bored of playing the concerned sibling and had run off again. But recently, Trey had been running off in a different way, spending more and more time with Kendra Daynes.

Not tonight, though. As they talked quietly—“Penny in bed?” “Yeah, out like a light.”—the lateness of the night became more and more apparent. Trey had known he’d be flying in long after Penny was asleep; wanted to be there with her tonight, fend off the quiet.

And he’d stayed. Settling down next to Trey, a dusty memory rose, unbidden. Back when they were younger, when Tom was still living at home, back before he’d given up on Trey completely, he used to wait up for him. In those days, Trey had been plagued by a relentless insomnia that kept him up and jittery until 3 in the morning; tired enough that he’d be in tears but unable to put his head down and sleep. Tom had only understood it enough to know that it had been a comfort for his twelve year old brother to have someone to talk to before he finally conked out, instead of pacing around his room like a caged animal.

Sagging against the pillows, Tom wondered if this—tired, so tired, unspeakably tired—was how Trey had felt on those nights. God, it had been a long, long day.

When Trey spoke, it was barely louder than the TV. “Didn’t announce that legislation, huh?”

Tom wondered if he’d heard that from Kendra, then decided he didn’t care. He stared at the TV. “No.”

“Why not?” Trey didn’t sound judgemental, just gently curious. They were both still staring at the screen as they spoke, as if this were just a casual chat. As if Tom hadn’t reneged on protecting abused children this afternoon to protect his voting margins; as if Trey didn’t know that was why he’d done it.

Tom couldn’t fight the closing of his eyelids anymore. He didn’t answer. He paid vague attention as the weight beside him lifted, and footsteps travelled to the other side of the room. Clinking. Footsteps. The weight returned. When Tom forced his eyes to open, Trey had placed a glass of scotch on the coffee table.

He didn’t ask any more questions, and they drank in the quiet together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Primo = Cousin


	9. #changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of the tumultuous North Carolina trip, a night out between Seth, Emily, Aaron, and Lyor proves that, for better or for worse, things have changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowowowowow I’m the WORST I’M SORRY! At the end of last year I was swamped with final exams and those were followed by mental health problems and family problems and work problems and basically every kind of problem so this fic got put on hold. For anyone kind enough to still be following this, here is a VERY belated chapter 9!

**July 20th, 2018**

The walk to The Third Estate had never seemed so treacherously long. Seth and Emily walking together to grab a drink with Aaron after work should have been perfectly normal, if not for the fact that Seth hadn’t had any idea Emily was joining them until he ran into her at the exit. Which made the fact that Seth hadn’t told Aaron that he’d also invited Lyor all the more awkward. Add on the fact that Seth and Emily hadn’t actually spent five minutes alone with each other the whole week and, well....Seth was dragging his feet.

They’d been balancing on this tightrope of ignored awkwardness between them for the last week, since North Carolina. Being at odds was a constant grating at their sides; Emily seemed eager to just pretend their entire argument never happened. Seth wasn’t so willing to forget, but he definitely had a vested interest in keeping the peace. The White House was brewing enough tension as it was. At least Em had seemed enthusiastic about tonight—which was a change from how she’d been all week; withdrawn and silent—but that was bound to change the moment Seth broke the news about his off-the-cuff invite. Maybe things between he and Em were uncomfortable, but things between her and Lyor could get downright nuclear.

Well, there was nothing for it; Seth needed to use one of his tried and true communications strategies: biting the bullet.

“Okay, so heads up, I may have invited Lyor.”

Emily, who’d been staring steadfastly ahead, snapped her head around. “Seth!” she yelped, smacking his arm lightly. “One block away from the bar is not a heads up.”

Seth held his hands up. “Blame Aaron, he didn’t tell me he was inviting you either. I’ve spent this whole time trying to figure out how to tell you without you bailing.”

Emily, lips pursed, looked like she was seriously considering it. Exactly what he expected; Lyor and Emily had been tense ever since her return to D.C, but somehow their relationship had managed to deteriorate even further since whatever went down between them last week. His nosier side itched to ask exactly what happened, but he knew better than to bring up North Carolina. That trip seemed to be unanimously dead to them—even to Lyor, who was the only person to get even close to what he wanted out of it.

“Why would you think inviting Lyor would be a good idea anyway?” Emily asked, resignedly continuing their walk. “Aaron doesn’t even like him.”

Seth had hoped his two friends could get along better if they started seeing each other as people rather than cogs in the campaign machine, but honestly, he would’ve invited Lyor anyway. It was a reflex. “I like to think of myself as a bridge builder.”

Emily snorted. “You’re whipped, is what you are.”

They’d almost managed to slip back into their usual light banter without it feeling forced, but something about that comment caught Seth off-guard. “What?” he asked with a stuttered chuckle.

Emily was smirking. “You and Lyor. You’ve been like this since I’ve got back.” She held up two fingers together in a mocking sort of salute.

Seth, giving Emily a sidelong glance, shrugged a shoulder. “Well, we did survive a near death experience together. Misery makes strange bedfellows and all that.”

“That sure is one way of putting it,” she muttered.

Seth spluttered. “Oh come on.” This was weird, uncomfortably so. And not just because—because him and Lyor being close—Lyor being the one he spent the most time with these days, actually—and that being a relationship that mattered to Seth in a way that was hard to articulate, did not mean he was _pining_ for the guy. It was the fact that Emily was asking at all—why did she care about Lyor? Subconsciously, his hackles rose.

“I’m just saying,” she pressed, laughter still ringing in her voice. “You two have gotten very close. Like we used to be.” She knocked their shoulders together jovially. “Remember the good old days? When you’d actually tell me things, instead of gossiping with Lyor?”

Seth grimaced; he could practically feel the leaden weight of Emily’s pointedness, and it was cracking the already thin ice that they were skating on to get through this conversation, this evening—hell, this entire week. She was right; they had been the good old days, back when they’d been the good friends who could tease each other about their hopeless crushes, back before they’d become each others’ hopeless crushes, and all the drama that had followed after.

The truth was, he wanted to keep his relationship with Lyor out of her spotlight. He didn’t want her overanalysing the way they still sometimes called each other after nightmares, or the fact that they were having nightmares at all. It would be easy to say it was because of last week—and that wouldn’t be a lie, exactly, but an oversimplification: things had been messy between them since the moment she’d kissed him. Everything between them now still felt like it was caught up in the spiderweb remnants of their relationship; all those times he’d bared himself to her and gotten only that feeling of hollowness from it. A month of her away in Florida hadn’t changed that; last week had just been the final confirmation.

He didn’t put much effort into his weary laugh. “You’re telling me you’re jealous that a guy you hate is my new BFF?”

“No. And this isn’t about my issues with Lyor at all. I think it’s nice you two are bonding. Weird, but nice.” Seth couldn’t quite believe that, but the next words sounded genuine. “I’m just telling you that things don’t have to change between us.”

He sighed internally. This charade of everything being just like it was, it wasn’t good for either of them, especially not with how much Emily wanted to believe it. He had to say something. He couldn’t keep this up. And he didn’t want to.

“Actually, I think they do, Em.”

Emily jerked her head at the stern note in his voice. Seth tried for a more casual approach. “I just think it’s normal, us growing apart.” He shrugged. “Considering our history.”

They had to cross at the lights, and Emily stared a hole into his head the whole way across.

“...Our history is you dumping me, Seth,” she said slowly once they were on the sidewalk again. “Which I thought we’d moved past.” She shot him an incredulous look. “It was months ago, and it was barely anything.”

Should he push it?

“Eight months isn’t barely anything, though, really.”

Yes. Yes he should.

Her eyes closed. “I really don’t want to have this argument with you, Seth.”

“I don’t want to have an argument at all, I just—“ he took in a measured breath; carefully composed all the thoughts that had been floating around his head that week. “I’m just saying. It was eight months, Em. Nearly a year. Of me chasing after you as you kept moving the goalposts of what you wanted in our relationship, my feelings be damned. Of you barely even speaking to me for weeks and then presuming we were still fine. Of you looking at my confidential relationship form and then getting angry at me for saying we were on-and-off, even though we were only ever on-and-off because you were unsure about us. Eight months of me trying to resuscitate that relationship before I realized I was the only one performing CPR. And I was tired of doing that alone.”

Just one street down from the bar and they’d stopped, like the words had pinned them down where they stood. Emily had her arms crossed, tight across her own chest like a hug, and her eyes were wide, aghast.

“Then why did you stay so long?” That almost too-cheery mask had cracked. There was anger in her voice; it didn’t disguise the wobbliness.

“Because it mattered to me,” Seth said simply, needing to finish. “But I think you knew that. And I think you didn’t care.”

Seth hadn’t realized the weight of those thoughts until he’d gotten them off his chest. He tasted relief crisp like clear air between them. It muffled itself, though, at the sight of tears glittering at the corners of Emily’s eyes. _Fuck_.

“Wow.” She sniffed. “So, we break up months ago, and you decide to tell me all this...now?”

Seth shifted uneasily, thinking of North Carolina, thinking of Lyor and Kendra’s words, of everything that led up to her leaving. “I guess things have just been...put into perspective for me recently.”

She laughed tonelessly, swiping a vicious hand across her eyes. “Well, what a perfect time to share this new perspective with me, Seth.”

Seth glanced helplessly up the street at the beckoning lights outside The Third Estate. He’d expected her to be a little upset, but not to this extent—had she really not seen this coming? “We can still get drinks, Em,” he said placatingly—not pleadingly; upset or not, he was sticking to his guns. He wasn’t going to grovel for her approval anymore. “We can still get lunch, and coffee—hang out. I _want_ us to be friends. There’re just some boundaries I think it’s fair that I keep up between us, at least for a while.”

After a tense few seconds, Emily nodded, once. Her eyes were dark and glittering like beetles.“Okay.”

“O-okay?”

“Yeah, _okay_ , Seth.” She turned, stomping her way down the street and—incredibly—went into the bar instead of disappearing into the night. Seth lingered behind a few moments, gut squirming.

Hadn’t that gone spectacularly? He sighed. He followed her inside.

 

* * *

 

Aaron should’ve felt grateful when Emily and Seth finally arrived. He’d managed to get in earlier to save them all a table—and, of course, Lyor’d had the same bright idea, which meant he’d spent ten minutes listening to Lyor talk shop while sneaking glances at his watch. Campaign talk was fine, even if mentions of the “Latino demographic” were giving him a tension headache, but Aaron actually enjoyed his off-hours; and he preferred spending them with someone who knew how to converse like a human being.

Conversation, though, was apparently not what either Seth or Emily had in mind.

Emily didn’t even sit down, just went straight to the bar to grab their first round, which she began demolishing the second she returned. Seth accepted his beer with an awkward sound of thanks and slumped back in his seat, throwing him a cursory greeting and whispering to Lyor to “please behave tonight.” Aaron and Lyor shared a silent glance.

“....Are you okay?” Aaron murmured to Emily, who was sat unusually close as if she were trying to put distance between herself and the other side of the table.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she replied shortly. Brows furrowed, Aaron looked to Seth; his friend just gave a minute shake of the head.

They didn’t talk about it. They didn’t talk much about anything. Bizarrely, Aaron found himself having to direct conversation. Usually there was no need, but now Emily only gave half hearted answers to Aaron’s questions, completely ignoring Seth’s tentative attempts to cajole her into speech and not even looking at Lyor. Lyor was quiet as well, mostly watching Seth and Emily with a narrowed gaze. A few times, he turned to Emily with a prying look in his eyes, but the moment he opened his mouth he let the telltale yelp of someone kicked under the table by Seth.

Was she really so mad that Lyor was here? If so, Seth was really feeling the heat for that invitation of his. He locked eyes with his friend wondered if he could see his thoughts— _you’ve really done it now, huh_ —in his expression. Given that Aaron could read Seth’s _this is not what I intended_ face clear as day, it seemed likely.

His pocket buzzed. Welcoming the reprieve, Aaron fished it out—just a message from his aide, nothing interesting. Nothing like....

Aaron’s fingers moved of their own accord in the same pattern they always did whenever he was feeling a little lost, or that same disappointment at the sight of a work-related text. He opened up his last exchange with Hannah. It was from just before she disappeared off to England; him urging her to, whatever she was doing, not get herself killed. Her final reply was a day later, just: _I’m okay._

They hadn’t talked since. Aaron had wanted to, many times, but never known what to say. The last time they’d been together he hadn’t been able to help her, after all, and he didn't doubt that she wanted to leave him-and everything he represented-behind. That didn't stop him from keeping tabs though. He knew where she was now—which was pretty much all he was allowed to at this point. He’d heard she was on desk duty—that, more than anything, had been a weight off his chest. She’d hate it, god knows, but this way he wouldn’t have to send anymore of those texts.

So; his whole life had been thrust into the political spotlight, and his friends were clearly going through one hell of a personal drama—but Hannah Wells was safe. That constant could get him through anything.

He only forced himself to look up again at the sound of Emily’s voice—at this point, an unfamiliar sound. He backtracked the half-listened to conversation in his mind—Seth had said something innocuous about Emily staying with her mum in Florida, and it was as if a light had been switched on behind her eyes. She sucked in a breath that went through her whole body, mumbled something about oncologist appointments.

At least she was talking. Aaron switched off his phone. “How...is your mum?”

Emily took a long, long drink. Aaron frowned, stomach dropping. “Oh—“

Seth drank in Emily’s silence, Aaron’s look of worry. “She’s, uh, she’s in remission,” he clarified—

“Yeah, well, that didn’t last.”

There was an ugly silence around the table. Emily blinked slowly, eyes on her hands. Aaron leaned back, struck dumb by the bleakness of those words. Part of him wanted to reach out, but her stiff figure didn’t invite comfort. Opposite him, Seth’s eyes had slipped closed. He looked ill.

“...As bad as the last time?” The voice was so gentle, it took Aaron a second to realise it was coming from Lyor.

Emily nodded, cleared her throat. “Uh, we found out a couple days ago, so...”

Seth did reach out then, hand across the table to fall, hesitantly, inches from Emily’s. She didn’t react. “Em, I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough. “I didn’t—I wouldn’t have...”

“It’s fine,” she cut him off sharply. “It’s seriously fine. I, um, I just need some—“ Abruptly, she stood. “I’m gonna get some air,” she said, and in seconds she was out the door, Aaron’s eyes following her as she went.

The moment the bar door clicked shut, Seth deflated, dropping his head into his arms with a groan. “I’m an asshole,” he muttered.

Aaron had questions—a lot of them—but at that moment they didn’t seem nearly as important as the empty seat next to him. For the second time that night, he had a rapid fire exchange of the eyes with Lyor; his eyes were on the door, but they flickered back to Seth often enough for Aaron to know that he had that handled.

Aaron stood.

 

* * *

 

This entire night had been building like a breath in Emily’s chest, and she needed desperately to let it out. She stole away out the door, ducking out of the doorway’s washed out light to shake off the stares she was sure were following her. She didn’t care, she just needed to leave— _that_.

She should never have come, not after what Seth said, or after knowing Lyor would be there. In her head, getting drinks with Seth and Aaron was supposed to be an oasis of normalcy after her mum’s phone call three days ago that had cracked her world in half. But, of course, they wouldn’t even let her have that. She shouldn’t have even—

No. She should’ve come back. Of course she should have. It wasn't as if staying in Florida would’ve warded mum’s cancer away. But what did she actually come back to, really?

She felt, rather than saw, the bar door open back up; the blast of warm air from within buffeting her from where she stood tucked into the partition between The Third Estate and the next building over. Her eyes were fixed on the restaurant lights on the opposite street when she felt that warmth settle next to her, all wrapped up into one figure.

Aaron gave her a tiny smile as she looked to him. He didn’t ask any questions though, which was enough to make her return it.

A few more seconds passed by of the vibrations of a moving city underfoot shaking Emily back into herself before her throat unstuck enough for her to speak. “It’s not like the good old days, huh?” The faintest tremor went through her. She tried for another smile.

Aaron wore a scrunched grimace. “Lyor makes things...awkward.”

“It’s not just Lyor.” There was an ache she could feel lodged deep in her chest. How had she reached a point where the two men left sitting in that bar felt like strangers to her? The whole city felt desolately alien. Emily had a sudden certain feeling that if she was to set off home right then that she wouldn’t be able to find her way. “Even before mum, everything’s been different.”

Aaron’s face was clear now, only quizzical. “Of course things are different now,” he said. “Why wouldn’t they be?”

It took her a second to realise that he probably thought she was talking about the campaign, and Emily could’ve laughed out loud when it clicked, affection blooming sharp and fast within her. Aaron had this single-mindedness about him that had used to drive her up the wall. But now...she felt herself shifting closer to him, drawn by his centre of gravity, taken by the urge to clasp his hand; anchor herself to the last sturdy ballast of familiarity that, when she thought about it, was always going to be Aaron.

The words, this time, felt less like splinters. “I just...miss how it used to be, y’know?”

Aaron nodded, still with a furrowed brow. He stared down at the pavement for a few moments. “I’m sorry about your mum.” The soft sincerity of it was like a balm.

“Thanks,” she sighed. “It’s hard being away from her.”

“Yeah.” His eyes, looking down at her, were so, so warm. “I’m glad you’re here though.”

It was too much; Emily turned her gaze away. An electric shock of nostalgia landed her back at the last point she’d felt this close to Aaron. Another time when the world seemed to be crumbling around her—and didn’t it always, with the two of them?—when she’d asked if he’d thought about what could’ve happened between them, and he’d said...

He’d said he had. And he said he’d moved on, that things had changed. Everyone seemed to love that line. Why? Emily hadn’t changed. She couldn’t be the only one who yearned for those things that were left behind, the things creeping out of reach.

Emily looked back up at Aaron, bracing herself to meet her eyes, but he had already turned away. In his hands was his phone, and as he ran his fingers across the screen he looked, for a moment, as though he had understood what Emily had meant, still understood, more than Emily could know.

 

* * *

 

When Seth had imagined how he would finally have his chat with Emily, he’d seen it as being like ripping off a bandaid. Instead, it had ended up being like ripping off a bandaid, slapping it back on again, and peeling it off slowly.

His head was a mess of oxymorons right now. He stood by what he said; every word, but...Christ, he thought she’d just been off because of North Carolina. He’d deliberately tuned himself off her airwaves since their argument, sure, but he still couldn’t believe he’d missed this. And he called himself the Director of fucking communication.

Seth lay his cheek on his arms, gazing up at Lyor. From this angle it was like staring up at a Greek statue; his friend all pensive frown and tense jaw. He was watching the door unblinkingly, as if he could see through the wall to where Emily and, undoubtedly, Aaron were standing.

“Do you know her? Emily’s mum?” Seth asked, thinking back to Lyor’s soft voice: as bad as the last time?

Lyor blinked down at him. “We never met. I knew Emily when she first got the diagnosis.”

“Oh.” Sometimes Seth forgot that Lyor and Emily knew each other before the White House. They certainly made it easy, these days. Seth had only ever known the bare facts: ovarian cancer, chemotherapy, remission. It was another on the list of things that they’d talked about without really talking about it. Would he be an utter hypocrite if he tried changing that now? Was soothing Emily even his responsibility anymore?

“Leave her to Aaron,” came Lyor’s warning voice, before Seth had said anything, sat up even. “He hasn’t upset her yet.” His head was cocked. “Which you’ve joined me in, apparently.”

With a wince, Seth heaved himself up to slump against the boot’s creaky leather bench. Oh, there was a question there, and Seth found he couldn’t help but answer it. Just like last week on the plane ride home, Lyor had an inextricable pull that Seth couldn’t help answering to. He spilled out all the events of the night, adding to the messy chronicle of times he’d rambled to Lyor about Emily, and anything else; those nights when he’d call him up to talk when his mind felt like a pressure cooker, and when that bled into casually dropped comments in between coffee and morning briefs. Well, Seth spilled, Lyor dripped; dropping little slivers of his life—about Bowen, his school days, his father—so casually that it only struck Seth afterwards that there probably weren’t many people who knew those things about him. They didn’t consider them conversations, because that would mean they were getting to know each other, and hadn’t they promised each other they’d never do that? It simply happened that one of them talked, and the other always listened.

Lyor was a good listener, just not in a way that anybody liked. He wasted no time with perfunctory platitudes, just zeroed in on the truth even if it wasn’t what you wanted. It used to drive Seth up the wall; now he appreciated having his words treated like they were significant enough to be met with more than cliches.

“Emily will take that as an invitation to shut you out, you know,” he said. “Especially considering the timing, which was amazingly terrible.”

Seth swallowed. He knew. He knew. He still couldn’t find it in himself to regret his words, not completely. There was always a price; even something that, only months ago, didn’t seem possible.

“Don’t you think it’s funny?” Seth said, felt Lyor’s gaze on him from out the corner of his eye. “Em was my best friend, and you were...” his lips twitched. “The guy nobody liked. Now we’re both sitting here in the doghouse together.”

Worse people to be stuck with, really.

From the way Lyor cocked his head, he didn’t find it strange at all. “Natural evolution,” he said simply. “Emily and I used to be friends—she was my only friend, actually, for quite a while. Things change.” He smirked. “After all, it took me some time to realise you were interesting.”

Seth smiled slowly. “Huh. Wonder if that was around the same time I realised you were the biggest pain in the ass I’d ever met.”

“When did that change?”

“Who says it has?”

Lyor raised a knowing eyebrow. “Natural evolution.”

Those words again, out of everything, had Seth feeling warm all over. They were hard to argue with. He cleared his throat, turning his attention once again back to the bar door. “I don’t think they’re coming back.” He nudged Lyor. “I’m, uh, surprised you haven’t split already.”

Lyor looked at him oddly. “I was waiting for you,” he said.

It was always in those small moments, Seth realised, when the most seemed to happen. Lyor was so simple and matter-of-fact in what he said that it shouldn’t have mattered so much, but that instant, where Seth was caught between studying the genuinely perplexed downward turn of Lyor’s mouth and his own realisation that his friend’s answer was so obvious—that was the moment that Seth’s mind chimed in that he could kiss him then. Lyor’s face was turned at just the right angle, and there was little enough space between them, and he was waiting, as promised; so if he wanted to—

He wanted to.

 _Well, look at that, Em_ , Seth thought dumbly. _You were right on the money._

He only realised he was staring when Lyor pulled back a fraction, frown deepening into something like worry. Seth laughed, shook his head, shrugged it off, tried not to think about he was apparently the guy who both alienated a friend and and realised he had a tiny crush on yet another coworker on the same night.

Whatever, he could deal with this. Probably just a trick of a bad night. Emily had gotten in his head.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll get the tab,” Lyor said, standing. “I could eat.” He didn’t ask if Seth was coming.

Goddamnit. He didn’t have to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter seems a little disjointed. It’s been taking me a while to actually remember where I’m up to in the story.
> 
> I’ve got a job now, so I can’t promise that I’ll be back to regular updates, but I will try my damndest. And chapter 10 is pretty much done already, so that’s something.


	10. #bonds...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Lyor, Seth, Aaron, and Emily have their fiasco at the bar, Kendra and Trey have their own problems to deal with—namely, a dinner with Tom.

**July 20th, 2018**

Kendra methodically adjusted her dress as she and Trey meandered their way up to the Residence. She wasn’t even sure what she was trying to fix. It looked fine; she knew it looked fine. She also knew, as she twisted a lock of hair anxiously behind her ear, that there was nothing wrong with her hair, either. Everything was fine—except her nails. She stared at them. Chewed to the quick. Christ.

Trey kept throwing her not-so-subtle glances, smiling twitchily. Trying to play it cool, no doubt, but he couldn’t fool her. She’d heard his nerves rattling around in his skittish laughter when she’d wondered aloud, after he told her about the invitation, why this dinner hadn’t happened sooner. They were coming up to five months now, after all, and it wasn’t like Tom and Trey were estranged. Anymore.

“I reckon Tom was hedging his bets,” he’d replied, wearing a too-wide grin. “Probably never thought we’d last this long.” And then he’d laughed, like it was some sibling in-joke. It had made her heart hurt, just a little. Definitely hadn’t made her look forward to this dinner any more.

Their eyes met again; twin deer in the headlights. Their shared pain, simultaneously realised, was like the needle that popped the air of terrible silence, and they both burst out in quiet laughter. Trey looped his arm through hers, pulling her close. Kendra, all instinct now, leaned into it.

“This is going great already,” she remarked.

“Aww, come on.” Trey was talking fast, like he thought he could outrun his jitters. “Let’s consider the positives. We don’t have to worry about starting a fight by bringing up politics. Plus, he already knows that you went to a very impressive college and that you’re a kickass lawyer, so that cuts out at least two thirds of the awkward ‘getting to know you’ small talk.”

“Thanks to my FBI, NSA, and Secret Service files, he actually already knows pretty much everything there is to know about me.”

“Even better!” Trey grinned. “See, we’re already in the clear.”

Kendra wanted so badly to give in to the smile that chirpy tone of his usually earned her, but she could feel her tightness wound, even now, from her fists to her vocal chords. “Yep. The only thing there is to worry about is the fact that he’s my boss, and also the President of the United States.”

“Eh, small potatoes.” Trey stopped them, squeezing her shoulders soothingly. “It’s gonna go great, babe,” he said soft, flippancy gone and replaced with the softest confidence. “You have nothing to prove.”

It was so very hard to doubt him when he used that tone. Kendra sighed and dropped her head coyly, unsettling her endlessly escaping bangs. “I’m sorry I’m being so...uptight,” she said with a wry twist of her lips. “I haven’t done this in a long time.”

“Neither have I. We’re in this one together.” Trey was all shy, schoolboy earnestness in the way he spoke, the way he touched her. These were Kendra’s favourite moments; when she could hold him up against the memory of that cocky, smirking thorn in her side she’d met months ago and watch it shatter when compared to the real thing.

She looped her arm back through his, shepherding him the last few feet to the door of the Residence--no use delaying the inevitable. “Is it weird that we’re treating this like I’m having dinner with your father and not your brother?” she asked as they reached the door.

“Oh yeah. There’s almost definitely some deep-buried psychological disturbance behind it that I should bring up with my therapist.” Trey smirked, a charming, formless facade of his old self, and gave her a peck on the lips as he knocked on the door.

Kendra melted into it for a peaceful second before her eyes widened and she pulled back.

“Wait, do I still call him Mr President?” she hissed, just as the door swung open. She only had time to see Trey cheerily mouthing ‘just roll with it’ before she was accosted by the President’s smiling face.

No going back now.

 

* * *

 

If Kendra knew how effective a tension dissolver Penny Kirkman was, she would’ve dragged the kid to every goddamn meeting, deposition, and trial she’d ever been to.

The no-man’s land between drinks and dinner had burned through her mental list of ‘President-safe’ conversational material. Luckily though, Penny Kirkman oozed the natural social graces that Kendra had spent years learning how to fake; quite literally taking her by the hand and sitting her and Trey down to a gruelling interrogation that was charming in the way that only precocious eleven year olds could manage.

Kendra wasn’t sure if that talent for diplomacy came from growing up cutting her teeth on White House politics or if it was genetic predisposition. There was so much of Tom in it—and even of Trey, in her earnest attempts at keeping the peace.

Definitely a paternal influence, Kendra noted dryly, and a little guiltily. Alex Kirkman, at least in her experience, had never been one for easing tensions.

Anyway, Penny’s conversation had relaxed Kendra, which of course relaxed Trey, and that seemed to do the trick for Tom, so by the time dessert rolled around their talk was slowly becoming less stilted. Tom—and, boy, that was still going to take some getting used to—had braved the waters first by asking Kendra about her family, something she was grateful for--for all the time she worked with him, learning who he was and what was safe to ask about was something that’d take a little more time. Still, she opted to keep most of her focus on her boyfriend. It was contrary to this entire evening, she knew, but she couldn’t help herself. There was something special about watching Trey and Tom just be brothers. Trey when they'd first arrived had been almost cartoonishly cheerful, and she’d caught the way his eyes slid to Tom’s face again and again, searching for any flicker of disapproval—but soon they were bouncing off each other, Trey protesting insincerely as Tom told stories from when they were kids like some embarrassing parent, with Trey giving in and smiling when he saw how much Penny laughed.

Actually, seeing him with Penny was its own gift. He had a way with her, a knack for making her smile. Kendra had seen how he could do that with others, but seeing it work on a kid—on Penny especially—was something special. That, more than anything else that night, had Kendra relaxing. They’d migrated to the living room, and she could see uncle and niece sharing whispered words. The fact that they seemed to be sneaking glances at her made her a little nervous, but their matching smiles softened out any real anxiety.

The jittery feeling returned, though, when the President joined them, coming to sit down right next to her on the couch. Kendra straightened, fought the urge to stand to attention. They both watched as Penny burst out laughing at Trey’s whispered joke.

“Penny likes you,” Tom said quietly, face glowing as he watched his daughter. “I think she enjoys having another girl around.”

Kendra buzzed with an odd sense of pride, as if being liked by Penny Kirkman was a personal honour—a silly thought—the girl seemed to like everybody she spoke to. “She’s a great kid,” she said with genuine warmth. “So smart. She’s been telling me about all the colleges she wants to apply to. Pretty comprehensive list for an eleven year old.”

Tom chuckled. “Yeah, she gets that from her mum.”

Ah, Kendra thought. So there were the matrilineal genes.

“Listen, Kendra.” Instinctively, Kendra tensed, but the President only turned his smile on her. “I wanted to thank you.”

She blinked. “Thank me?”

“For being so, well, professional about all this.” He snorted, ducking his head. “This whole situation puts me in a bit of an awkward position. I’m sure it’s a lot worse for you.”

Kendra allowed herself a smirk. Up close now, Tom’s nerves seemed almost more palpable than hers. It was strangely reassuring. “Just a bit.”

“I think you’re handling it far better than I would in your position. And I want you to know that I don’t think any differently of you because of your relationship with my brother. I still consider you one of my most valuable assets on my staff.”

An odd dissonance came with those words. Was that what Kendra had really been afraid of all this time. Losing the respect of her colleagues was one thing, but losing the President’s would cut sharper. His reassurance was a relief, certainly, but—it fell flat. What a bitter irony, Kendra thought grimly; the President was the most powerful man in the world, but with this his good opinion probably mattered the least.

Finally, the space between them felt open enough for honesty. “I don’t think everyone shares that opinion, sir.”

The frustration must have been carved into her face. Tom grimaced. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can try to make sure you stay involved, but—“

“—But you can’t control the way people think,” she finished for him. She wore a weary, battle-hardened smile. “Don’t worry, sir. If I could be deterred so easily by people’s bad opinions, I would never have gotten where I am today.”

“Well, I’m glad you did.”

When Tom looked at her then, clear eyed and approving, Kendra was struck with the impression that he was really, truly seeing her. For herself, at least, that meant something. For Trey, she knew, it would mean everything.

Just thinking about Trey made Kendra want to look over at him again. She was curious if he’d been paying attention to their little chat— _look at us, babe, we’re bonding!._ He had his head down to look at one of Penny’s drawings, but there was a smile tugging at his cheeks—he flicked his eyes up to meet hers, for just a second, and she knew it was for her. Her heart swelled.

“You know,” she said lightly to Tom, laughing a bit. “When you said you wanted to thank me, I thought you were going to say it was for taking your brother off your hands.”

Tom snorted. “Maybe that was a part of it.” His eyes were fixed on Trey too; they looked ponderous. Like he was seeing Trey too. “I have to admit, I was nervous about tonight, and not just because of our relationship. You’re such a big part of Trey’s life; I was...scared he was going to pull away again, try to hide it from me.” This open vulnerability from the President was so touching. “He looks so...happy,” he murmured in soft wonderment.

This, Kendra decided, was a good start.

 

* * *

 

The night could have gone on like that. As they mellowed out, the talking became easier, the tension harder to maintain, and soon it was odd even remembering there were titles and roles outside of that room. By the time it happened, it was—well, it was already well past Penny’s bedtime, but they were almost at the point where Tom would put his foot down and frogmarch her to her room (something he’d had to learn to do; it used to be Alex’s job, after all.)

Almost then, but not quite—three simultaneous dings rang out through the room.

Kendra’s heart was jammed in her throat like a bulging fist as she stared down at her phone, and in her peripheral she could see Tom and Trey doing the same. She was instinctively attuned to that sound; it was the alarm bell of the Kirkman-related news alert they all undoubtedly had. She’d expected campaign news. She hadn’t expected to click on the link and be faced with a screen cap of a younger, paler, but still unmistakeable Trey.

With dread-paralysed fingers, she played the video.

“President Kirkman has never mentioned his brother’s drug addiction. What other secrets is he hiding?” The video droned on. Nobody was listening.

Sound could drain from a room as fast as light once a switch is flicked, and tension could enter just as swiftly. Trey had been in the middle of telling a joke. Now, he’d been put on pause. Kendra would’ve been ready to denounce any ad made by CitizensForFamily as some nonsense smear campaign, but the way he was frozen, lost for words, with that look of horror on his face...

Tom noticed it too. They all did—even Penny, who stood anxiously chewing her lip, big eyes swivelling unsurely from her uncle to her father. Kendra got up and stepped in closer to her boyfriend, millions of questions whizzing around her head but right then offering nothing but her hand in his. It was all she could do as Tom broke the silence.

His voice was ashen. “...Trey?”

Trey squeezed her hand tight enough to crush her fingers. Kendra squeezed right back.


	11. #truthandlies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dark secret from Trey’s past is exposed, complicating both the campaign and his relationship with Tom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY I know I always seem to have an excuse, but shit has been going down in my life like you wouldn’t believe, so it took me this long to write this.

**June 21st, 2018**

Trey was stood in the eye of a storm. All around him was a hurricane of harried conversation—Mars, and Lyor, and Seth, and Kendra, and Tom all arguing over the top of each other—but he wasn’t hearing any of it; not really. It was insect chatter underneath the banging metal death drum of his heartbeat in his ears, the one that kept knocking all his thoughts out of place. _He fucked up—how could he do this to his family again—not like it was a surprise he’d been doing this his whole life—Tom was going to hate him all over again—Tom—Tom—Tom—_

_Don’t panic._

He held that thought tight. This couldn’t be like last night, spiralling into a near breakdown the moment he was away from his brother. Today he was fixing his mess, not creating a new one.

Amidst the fog, Trey heard his brother. The world snapped back into hyper-focus as Tom spoke.

“Okay, okay, enough.” He didn’t sound presidential, just tired. “Just—how do we deal with this?”

“If you ignore this you’ll seem indifferent to opioid addiction.” That was the Chief of Staff. Kendra’s oddball campaign manager buddy, Lyor, was hot on his heels though.

“And if you defend it, people will see you as coddling drug users. Or only caring about white, upper class ones.” Everyone was very carefully not looking Trey’s way, and Trey very carefully did not flinch. “It’s a catch-22, sir,” Lyor continued. “It needs a broad response. And it’ll have to come up in the convention this Friday—not fuelling the fire, but not brushing it under the rug either.”

“Sir....” Mars cut in, voice compressed to a needle point of urgency. “The drug law reforms we discussed.”

Seth grimaced. “The press is going to see that as a campaign move to save face if we bring that in now—“

Lyor laughed darkly. “We are saving face.”

“And we need action.” That was Kendra, finally. Her voice rang out so much brighter to Trey’s ears  after a barrage of near strangers. She had that fiery look of determination in her eyes that he loved, and it almost made him feel like things could possibly be okay. “I can look into it—“

“I’ve got it covered,” Mars interrupted, and Ken’s nostrils flared.

“Mars...” she warned. Trey felt a defensive sting of anger in the underbelly of his mind—no wonder Kendra came home fuming most days if that was how her boss talked to her. On any other day, he knew he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from saying something; knowing him, probably causing a scene. Right now though, that all seemed very far away, because his brother was staring at him again; like they’d both drifted away from the room and back to the Residence, to the night before...

_“Trey.” That was all Tom said, once they were finally alone—Kendra, reluctant to leave, eventually acquiesced under Trey’s pleading gaze and ushered a sorely protesting Penny to her bedroom. He hadn’t wanted witnesses to this unravelling, didn’t want Kendra—or, god Penny—to hear his voice shake as he faced up to Tom’s yelling, or barrage of furious questions. But there was only “Trey—“ and then a horrible silence. It was so much worse._

_Trey needed to fill it with something, and that ended up being everything. “It was years ago—almost a decade now,” he stammered out, quiet words still feeling too loud in the wake of his brother’s silence. “It was—I wasn’t in therapy, I was spiralling, self medicating—it was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but I’m clean now, I swear to you, I-I barely even drink—“_

_“Stop,” Tom said, holding a hand up, face contorted just slightly, just enough; a deep creasing in the corners of his mouth. “Stop.”_

_Trey stopped._

_His brother crossed the room, landing vaguely close to the sideboard table with one hand falling to rest just near one of his family photos. Alex beamed at Trey from behind the glass, and he averted his eyes. Maybe it was instinct pulling Tom back to her right now, or maybe he just needed to be further away from Trey. “What did you—you know.” he asked. He wasn’t looking at him._

_It was odd. In the few seconds that Tom had silenced him, it was like Trey’s jaw had been set in concrete. He had to work it loose now as he spoke. “Pills, mostly. Valium, Vicodin. They were available, and—“ he wetted his dry lips—“cheap.”_

_“Jesus, Trey.” He was so quiet—why was he so quiet? Those words could have been missed if Tom hadn’t finally turned his gaze back on him, and with it turning Trey’s laser focus on him as well. He was still waiting for the yelling to start._

_Except it didn’t have to for the pain to start. Tom’s next words were like a slap in the face._

_“Were you ever high around the kids?”_

_“No! God.”_

_Tom nodded, and Trey thought—or at least wanted to think—that some of that troubled edge had softened from his face. Not gone though, not when there were more questions, ones that Trey was terrified to his bones to hear. “When you asked me for money—“ Tom paused before he continued, voice tight. “When you asked mum for money—“_

_Trey closed his eyes. He couldn’t, he just— “I’m sorry, Tommy,” he said, or maybe he only thought it. Either way, it only bought him more of that horrible silence._

_If he’d had time, a plan, a fucking warning, maybe this wouldn’t be tumbling downhill so quickly. So even this moment gets stolen from them, Trey thought, in a flaccid attempt to be angry at anything but himself._

_His eyes were still closed, so he couldn’t see Tom’s face when he finally spoke again, but he could hear the bite of grief in his voice, and somehow that was so much worse. “You never told me,” he said._

_Trey swallowed. “It was my problem—“_

_“When I’m campaigning for re-election, Trey, this sort of thing is my problem too.” Trey tried not to flinch, wrapping his arms around himself and standing still and stupid on the spot. “I’m not angry, Trey,” he heard. When he looked up, Tom still wasn’t meeting his eyes._

_Tom was usually angry; with him, anyway. Who else had there been to do it? Dad had died far too early in Trey’s life, and to his mother—well, Trey could do no wrong. He was the baby, after all. So Tom was the one saddled with discipline, every time._

_Of course he’d been angry; he’d been a child too. Sometimes Trey forgot that._

_Tom wasn’t a child any more though. He was just the man who had to solve all the problems. Including Trey’s._

_“Go home, Trey,” he said, not looking, not looking. “Sleep. We’ll deal with this tomorrow.”_

_If Trey were a wiser man, smarter, more like Tom, he could have found some way to make this better. There had to be some magical combination of words—some perfect apology or explanation—that would wipe that look off of his brother’s face. As it was, he’d never been the person who could figure out the right thing, so all he could do was walk away, wishing vainly for there to be some way to fix this, fix everything...._

Trey blinked. The others were still talking; Mars and Kendra locked in some heated, hushed dispute, and Lyor and Seth talking through press strategies with a lightning speed that made his head spin. Through it all, he could still feel Tom’s eyes on him, still staring like he had last night.

“What if I talk to the press?” he said, and the whole room fell silent. “I could make a statement. explain everything—“

“No!” Everyone responded in a defeaning unison, but Tom’s voice, stronger even than Kendra’s, carried well over the rest. A spasmodic release of pure emotion, bursting past Tom’s careful composure that he’d somehow managed to keep up since last night—that was more like the big brother Trey remembered. He swallowed fitfully.

Everyone else wore the distinct expression of people who very suddenly did not want to be in the room. Seth, scratching the back of his neck as he flicked his eyes to the President, turned to Trey with a grimace. “They’ll tear you to pieces, man,” he said, at least sounding sympathetic. “It’s better you just stay away.”

“I want to help,” Trey insisted. Kendra—she had to sense how much this meant to him. He turned his desperate gaze to her, but she just shook her head silently, lips thin. 

Tom ran a hand over his face, then straightened; immediately, Trey saw the face of Mr President settle back in place. It was still disconcerting. “Seth’s right, we don’t want to look reactive right now,” he said to a frowning Mars. “If we’re to introduce reforms, we’ll do it without rushing. Any statements I’ll make will be on Friday. Seth, brief the press; keep it short. Lyor, walk with me.”

They nodded, all seemingly, somehow, satisfied. Trey watched with clenched fists as they all headed their own ways; he barely even felt it when Kendra, hot on Mars’ tail out the door, brushed his hand. Instead, as Lyor went to follow Tom, Trey stepped in front.

“Tom,” he said urgently, hand on his brother’s chest to stop him in his tracks. “I want to help. I want to fix this.”

Tom stared at Trey’s hand, then up at him. “I’m sorry, Trey, but you can’t.” He stepped back, and Trey’s hand fell limply to his side as Tom and Lyor walked away and the door swung shut behind them.

 

* * *

 

“Mars.”

Kendra’s voice cracked like a whip, but Mars didn’t falter. /He oughtn’t be surprised, especially after that meeting. At the same time, it seemed incredible that Kendra had chosen this moment, right when he felt so afloat and dizzy, to hunt him down for this confrontation. He wasn’t sure he could tolerate it. 

He wanted to call Lynn, listen to her voice—her voice mail, most likely; she was back in rehab, which meant she’d be ignoring him. He also wanted to scrub all this out of his skin; the meeting, Lynn, all of it. He wanted to curse out every single person in that damn room. Mostly he wanted to forget the way that, the moment he had walked in the room, Tom had looked to him in desperation as if he had the answer to all this.

Mars, unable to help himself, had scrutinised Trey the moment he’d found themselves in a room together. He’d never spoken more than five words to Kirkman younger, but he’d heard the stories, of course; that being that there was no story—before popping back up into the President’s life six months ago, he’d been a veritable ghost to him. It wasn’t a big leap to imagine him cutting crushed Vicodin in the backrooms with other businessmen, or even curling up in some back alley with a needle in his arm.

A bottle of pills, perhaps, spilling out on a bedspread. 

Mars took a breath, sped ahead, but Kendra wouldn’t be shaken; at his elbow and bristling. “You heard the President—we’re not taking any bold steps,” he said. _Go away, go away, go away_. “Therefore, I’d say there’s no need to dog me about them.” He made a sharp left turn. Maybe he could lose her through sheer agility.

“That’s not what I’m—“ her eyes flashed. “Hey! Do not walk away from me!”

He obliged, more shocked than he’d like to admit by her intrepidity. If someone like Seth ever spoke to him like that in an open corridor, Mars would have fired them on the spot. As it was, he turned to face her. No audience—the few others in the hall with them had quickly scurried to safety the moment Kendra had raised her voice. This was a solitary stand-off.

Kendra looked more composed than her tone suggested, but there was fire in her eyes. “How long are we going to do this for?”

The truth was that he’d been expecting this; her frustration he’d felt building up finally blowing its top. Maybe he even deserved it. It didn’t mean he wasn’t right. “Do what?” he said tiredly.

She scowled. “I am as competent as anyone else here, and you know it.”

“This has nothing to do with competency.”

“Then why shut me down in there? Why snub me every day since you’ve gotten here?”

“Because I knew that, eventually, something like this would happen,” he snapped, finally. “You’re the White House Counsel, who’s decided to get involved with the President’s notoriously unreliable brother.” Kendra’s eyes flashed, and her jaw was set with a quivering, raging intensity; but she was silent, listening. “And now, of course, Kirkman Junior’s gotten himself into hot water—tell me, Kendra, which side are you going to fall on?”

She stared at him incredulously, lip curled. “If you knew anything about Tom Kirkman then you’d know that there are no sides to this.”

Her as well? Mars worked in a building of naive children, every single one. “You’re his lawyer; you should know better than anyone that there are always sides,” he said derisively, and pointed an accusing finger. “You’re compromised.”

Kendra looked unmoved, and deeply unimpressed as she snapped at him. “Right, because you have no emotional stakes in this; no baggage. How long have you been advocating to the President for drug reform? You of all people should understand my position.”

So much of him right then wanted to scream—right there in the hall, privacy be damned—that of course, of course he understood, why did she think he was warning her? But her coy words had sapped any fight out of him. All he could think now, tiredly, was: _she knows_. Kendra knew about Lynn, and everything that came with her, and still she was standing so steadfastly with one foot in the President’s camp and one foot in his brother’s, and why did that feel like such a defeat?

“You can be angry at me, that’s fine,” he said wearily. “Hell, be angry at anyone you like. You ought to be. You’re stuck in a shitty system with an even shittier choice in front of you, and I never said it was a fair one, but it’s one you have to make.”

There was no other word for the look she threw him but disgust. “You never have,” she hissed.

Kendra knew. She didn’t understand. Mars felt swallowed by pity, and as he stared at her with a wan smile, he wasn’t sure if it was for her or himself. “Haven’t I?”

He stalked off. This time, Kendra didn’t follow.

 

* * *

 

Tom still remembered the first time he had to drag his little brother out of trouble. Quite literally; he’d dragged him back to school by his collar when, on his free period, he’d caught Trey flunking class with a gaggle of other grubby sixth graders. 

Always little things, back then. Trey had talked back in class. Trey was forging mum’s signatures to excuse the homework he hadn’t turned in. Trey had broken his curfew (again). Then: Trey had filched a pack of cigarettes from the corner store—and Tom, cleaning up each and every mess. His responsibility; to his baby brother, yes, but to his mum as well, who’d just gotten her diagnosis and was getting tireder and paler every day.

_Be patient with him_ , she used to tell him. _He’s just finding his way_. His way, over and over, away from them. She must have understood, all his moods and fluctuations and falls. Had she understood this—the few times he saw her, as she got sicker and sicker, had she realised what he was doing to himself? 

Drugs, Tom understood. The medical facts of addiction, the spiral of it, the way it took hold of a person through no fault of their own. But understanding Trey; that was something Tom had never been able to manage. He’d thought that now, after coming back together, he’d finally figured it out. He’d thought that the bipolar was the last secret Trey had to shed. But now, once again, it felt like there was a stranger in front of him.

How many times? Tom wondered. How many times was he going to have the rug pulled out from under his feet? 

He watched Trey, and he could feel Trey watching him in return. But whenever their eyes met, Trey could never seem to hold his gaze.

And Tom wondered.

 

* * *

 

Tricia ducked and weaved through the clamour of commotion in the campaign office, catching glimpses of the latest Kirkman scandal on the mass of TVs every which way. Not the best day to try and have a few words with her old boss, definitely, but she would persevere. She’d been thinking on this for a while, and had already gone through the ordeal of pitching her idea to Seth, so she was in it now.

(“Lyor gets everything,” he grumbled, before waving off her awkward apology. “Hey, ignore me. It’s a good move.” But he still looked a little put out.)

A head of brown curls caught her eye, and she beelined towards it. Mr Boone was standing in Miss Rhodes’ office, alternating rapidly between using his hands in wild gesticulations and checking his phone. Miss Rhodes wore a concerned frown, nodding along as she watched a garish print up of Kirkman’s polling numbers flashed on her TV screen.

“—he can kiss those numbers goodbye unless he approaches this right—“ Mr Boone was saying, and Tricia wondered if he even heard her hesitant rap on the office’s open door.

“Hi, Mr Boone?” Tricia called, knocking hesitantly on the open office door and wondering if he even heard her over the sound of his own voice.

“You’ve got to be shitting me!”

Tricia cringed a little before she realised he was talking to his phone—or maybe Miss Rhodes—and not her. “What?” Miss Rhodes asked, at the same moment that she noticed Tricia lurking in the doorway and gave her a quirked eyebrow.

Tricia’s eyes darted between her and her old boss. “...We have a...1 o’clock?” she mouthed. 

Judging by her twitching lip, Rhodes seemed to find that funny for some reason, but she motioned to Mr Boone and jerked her head Tricia’s way all the same.

Mr Boone whirled around, looking strained but somehow managing to sound fairly chipper. “Oh, Tricia! Hi! Terrible timing.”

Yeah, she could see that. “Oh—“

“The FCC just ruled that our convention is not a convention, it’s a rally,” Mr Boone said, attention back on Miss Rhodes, and Tricia clamped her mouth shut. “And thus not entitled to free airtime on the networks. We would have to pay for four days of coverage, which we cannot afford, despite it being our best shot at getting ahead of this drug thing.” He scowled. “Take a wild guess who appointed the commissioner who cast the swing vote!”

Miss Rhodes’ face fell. “Moss.”

Mr Boone shook his head hard enough to rattle his glasses. “See, this is the kind of prick we’re dealing with.”

Well and truly forgotten by the door, Tricia smiled to herself without quite being able to help it. She’d seen this from Seth as well—rattling around in a panic while somehow overlooking the most obvious solution—and it never failed to be funny.

“Stage it someplace cool. And free. And put it on the web,” she said, and both of them looked over to her, startled. Mr Boone narrowed that prickling gaze on her, and she gave an awkward little half shrug, a little regretful that she’d spoken up so abruptly.

“So an un-convention,” Mr Boone said slowly. “That could work.” He looked to Miss Rhodes: she gave a ‘whatever works’ shrug. Turning back to Tricia, Mr Boone surveyed her critically; drawn to his full height, he had to crook his head down, peering over his glasses with a toothy half-grin. Tricia had to smother another smile at the sight—she’d never been as intimidated by the man as she probably ought to have been, because between his glasses and his pointy face and the odd, avian way he held himself, he’d always reminded her of an overgrown parrot.

“Why is it that whenever there’s a crisis, somehow, your name is attached to the solution?” he asked. Tricia’s eyebrows shot up. That, she had no answer for.

“I—“

“How’d you like to work here, huh?” he interrupted smoothly, and Tricia couldn’t quite believe her luck. “Front row seat to the wheel of progress?”

This time, Miss Rhodes did laugh. “You’re gonna steal her from Seth?”

“I hired her first, so technically Seth stole her from me,” he sniped. “Tricia?”

“I—yes!” Now she couldn’t hide her smile even if she tried. “Thank you.”

“Excellent! Emily can make that happen.” He clapped his hands together, and speedily went for the door, clumsily sliding past Tricia and then, as if pulled back by a jerked string, swung back around so wildly he came close to toppling over. “Oh, uh, what was the 1 o’clock about?” He said.

Tricia had to laugh. “I was going to ask if there was a position open for me here,” she said, and Mr Boone beamed.

 

* * *

 

It seemed as though all Trey had done since that abysmal morning had been checking the clock. It hadn’t helped that there wasn’t much to occupy himself with in the empty, perpetually house-cleaned and ordered rooms of the Residence most of the day—even now, sitting at the dining table with Penny, fresh from school, he was surreptitiously checking the seconds. It wasn’t like he was on house-arrest or anything; he could hav left the White House at any time—probably Tom would have been glad knowing his fuck up of a brother wasn’t haunting his home—but Trey had been promised a Talk, and what would happen if he wasn’t here the moment Tom walked in the door to make that happen? Another decade of silence? He knew how good Tom was at those.

Of course, there was also the fact that he was just so sure that Tom was expecting to come home and find him gone, cleared out without a word, well on his way to New York. Or Tahiti. Trey had never been able to shake that smirking, adolescent part of himself that liked to show his big brother up. _You thought I’d bailed, Tommy? Well here I am helping your daughter with her homework, so stick it._

Penny chewed the eraser end of her pencil as she slaved over her take-home Geography quiz, feet kicking under the table; subdued. They hadn’t talked much about it, all things considered.

“The drug thing—is that why you were gone so long before?” she’d asked out of nowhere, painstakingly labelling a US map with clumsy cursive.

“Um.” Trey hadn’t even known how to start explaining that murky period of his life to an eleven year old. “Part of it, yeah. But I’m sticking around now.”

She nodded sagely. “How many S’s in Mississippi again?”

“Four.” Trey tapped her lightly on the arm. “Hey, you know I’m sorry about that, right? For not being around so long?”

“Yeah, I know.” And that had been that.

Trey wondered how much Tom had explained to her last night, if anything. It wasn’t like she wasn’t interested, he didn’t think. She just had the quiet, world-weary resignation of a kid too used to being kept out of the loop. Old souls; her and Tom both.

Not like Leo, who’d rang him a few hours ago in an energised frenzy. “If you’re on the run from dad, the space under my bed is free,” was the first thing he’d said, and Trey had laughed because in that moment his nephew had sounded everything like Alex.

He’d had pagefuls of questions. Trey did his best to answer them all truthfully, man to—yes, still hard to believe he’d grown up this fast—man. One had tripped him up though.

“Did mum know?” Leo asked.

Trey paused. He’d never confided in Alex about this, but the way she’d looked at him sometimes, that perceptive, lawyerly gleam in her eyes....”I—don’t know. I never told her. Always figured that if she suspected something she would’ve told your dad.”

There was a thick pause. “Mum knew when to keep a secret. Especially from dad,” Leo said, a little shakily. Trey raised an eyebrow, but didn’t push.

“She knew he can be...Look, for a smart guy, dad’s, like, kind of an idiot, right?” Trey laughed, but Leo had sounded unnaturally serious. “He wants to protect everyone, so when bad things happen to the people he loves, he freaks out. Sometimes it comes out wrong. So just don’t....I know what the news is saying about you. It’s bullshit. He knows you’re a good guy, Uncle Trey.”

That had been a couple of hours ago. Now, snippets of their conversation still pulled through his mind. Is that what Tom had told Penny last night, tucking her in: _your uncle Trey is a good guy?_

Trey snuck another glance at the grandfather clock’s solemn face. Did it usually take Tom this long to get back? Probably he was stuck dealing with Trey’s mess, but still, the hours seemed to be dragging particularly long.

And they dragged, and dragged, long after Penny finished her Geography test and her math booklet and half her creative writing assignment, and Trey had cleared away the plates from dinner, until they were halfway through a startlingly competitive game of Scrabble, and they heard the door open and close.

“Hey, dad.” Penny abandoned her half finished word (D E F L E C) in favour of greeting her dad with a hug. Tom returned it gratefully. When he looked back up at Trey, hovering awkwardly at the table, with his hands in his pockets, Trey could see the lines of exhaustion furrowed a little deeper in his face.

Tom dipped his head back down, murmuring something unintelligible in Penny’s ear. By his niece’s put upon sigh as she pulled away, Trey didn’t have to guess what was said.

“Good game, Uncle Trey,” she said glumly. Then, unexpectedly, she wrapped her arms around him in a hug, noticeably tighter than usual. Trey gave her a warm squeeze, reluctantly pulling away as he looked up; his brother’s face, when he caught it, held a photo-flash of something like grief. 

Then it was gone, along with Penny—flouncing off sulkily to her room in a way that seemed aged on her—and they found themselves, once again, staring each other down in the living room.

Mercifully, Tom started things this time. “How are you holding up?”

Trey gave a slow half shrug. “Um, fine?” He tried to read the tension in Tom’s body, face: anything for clues. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to turn on the news all day. “How is...Is everything....okay?”

Tom lay his suit jacket on the back of the couch with deliberate care, starting to work on his tie. “There was a hiccup with the convention, but Lyor’s got something in the works, apparently. Some...un-convention,” he said, sounding dubious. The tie fluttered down onto the cushions. “This story’s an empty barrel, Trey. It’ll make a lot of noise in the meantime, but people will forget pretty quickly.”

Trey heaved a sigh of relief, though he didn’t actually feel all that unburdened. “I’m just glad it didn’t do that much damage.”

Was that it? He watched Tom’s expression with bated breath, both of them still standing; unwilling, or unable, to let themselves be comfortable in each others’ presence. Tom didn’t look relieved. He looked stricken, that same look he’d seen before. Trey felt hazy in the sickening wait. Then, Tom began to speak—“You remember when mum was in the hospital?”—and everything was thrown into focus like stepping out of a warm house into a blizzard. 

“The final time, I mean,” he was saying, slow and deliberate, eyes not on Trey but on some point beyond his right shoulder; back in another time maybe. “When we knew she wasn’t going to make it through the night. You remember how I called you? You were in Tampa, I think, or somewhere like that. Enough time—you could have caught a flight, easy. I’d have wired you the money if you needed it. You said you were on your way. And you never came.”

Trey’s stomach was sinking, sinking; a wrecked ship at the bottom of the sea. Unsalvageable. 

“I kept telling her that you were on your way, even though I knew, I _knew_ —and that’s what she died believing; that you were on your way.” The way Tom’s eyes pierced right through him, Trey knew for sure, in case he hadn’t known already, exactly when his big brother had given up on him. “Were you high, that night?”

No matter many pills he’d taken, many for this exact reason, Trey could never scrub that night from his mind. _Phone pressed to his shoulder as he hailed a taxi—“Jesus fuck, Tommy, of course I’m coming, just tell her to hang on, I’m on my way”—back in his hotel room, passport on the dresser, but pills too—just a couple, to steady his nerves, to see her again, after everything, because he couldn’t—he couldn’t—_

He couldn’t do it.

“Yes.”

Something shifted in Tom’s face as he nodded; a sort of letting go—had he been formulating this interrogation all day, waiting for this answer? Trey was suddenly sure that Tom had been sitting on this thought for years, unable to put a name to that gut-deep suspicion he must have had. “I don’t know if that makes it better or worse,” Tom breathed out, with an almost-chuckle, flat and dead sounding. 

“You know, it’s not the drugs, Trey—god knows I never expected any less from you.” That made Trey flinch. Tom hadn’t sounded this cold speaking to him since—well, the phone call they had the day after mum died, and the last time Tom spoke to him for nearly three years. “But the lies. How could you keep this from me?”

Trey felt sick. “...I didn’t....tell you about my bipolar—I—“

“Don’t,” Tom snapped. “Don’t compare that to this.”

Heat rose to Trey’s cheeks; he couldn’t help it. What more could Tom possibly want from him? “When was I supposed to tell you, Tom? Christ, your wife had just died, and then you were facing that fucking impeachment, then running for re-election—you think I wanted to add to that?”

“You had ten years to tell me!” Tom was pacing now, long, prowling strides that boxed Trey in.

He scoffed out a near-hysterical laugh. “You hated me all ten of them. Should I have rocked up on your doorstep: hey, big brother, sorry about being a total deadbeat, oh by the way, I’m an addict?” Their voices were rising now, even Trey’s; louder with every word.

“I would have helped you—“

“You would have slammed the door in my face!”

“Could you blame me?” Tom roared.

The intensity of his scream must have burst some insular bubble of emotion they were in, and suddenly they were both conscious of just how loud they were being, and of Penny’s room just down the hall. Tom’s shoulder’s were heaving from the force of his breathing, and Trey’s hands, balled into fists by his sides, were trembling.

He’d wanted a talk, to clear the air. He’d thought they’d evolved past screaming matches. Maybe this was what they’d always come back to, in the end.

“Tom,” Trey said quietly, throat thick around the words. “I’m here now. I’m still me.”

“Yes, you really are,” Tom said icily, and somehow those words, out of everything that had been thrown at him tonight, hurt the most. His brother was leaning heavily on the back of the couch; he turned his head away.

“God—“ Tom’s hand was covering his eyes. “We were doing so well.”

Trey wasn’t able to say another word. He just nodded, swiping at his own eyes with his sleeve. It was ironic enough to hate himself over, but right now, like burning, more than he had in probably five years, Trey craved a hit.

This time, Tom didn’t have to tell him to leave.


	12. #threeevenings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Trey wrestle with the strain on their relationship. Meanwhile, Kendra has her own struggle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy I’m back!

**June 22nd, 2018**

Kendra liked warmth. She always had. Hot chocolates, roaring fires, cozy sweaters. She was a snow baby, born late November, and some of her fondest childhood memories involved tumbling madly through the snow until her nose got cold, just for the thrill of running back into the warmth of her house—or, more often than not, her father’s arms.

That love never died; it simply aged with her. It became warm houses, warm beds, warm chests against her cheek. Trey was warm all over.

She pressed a kiss to his bare shoulder, then another, and another, until she got him to look at her instead of at the wall. He smiled, curling his fingers through her hair to gently cup the back of her head, but it felt more reflex than anything; his eyes were still clouded and distant. Kendra didn’t have to ask where his mind was.

“He’s not right,” she murmured. “He’s not right and he’s not being fair.”

This was the second night in a row of hushed explanations—of Trey staring at the ground and Kendra holding his hand, having to stop herself from snapping each time he said something too self-deprecating. They’d spent tonight curled around each other as he told her what Tom had said—screamed—at him, and she’d had to pull her hand away, worried that she’d flex too tightly and he’d mistake her rage as being for him.

Kendra was an only child. Maybe this was something only siblings could understand. But then she remembered Seth, all that time ago, lying to her face without a flinch or hesitation to keep his little brother out of trouble, and she didn’t think so.

“Mm, I dunno.” Trey sounded so distant. “I’ve been causing trouble ever since I was a kid, y’know?” He gently traced her spine, her skin tingling from the soft scrape of his short nails. A businessman’s nails. She’d spent long hours last night, staring at the ceiling as Trey lay (pretending to be) asleep beside her, trying to reconcile this Trey she knew, with his freshly ironed shirts, and his daily clean shave, and the stupid fruit press in his kitchen, with the image he’d painted for her of him before he’d dragged himself to rehab, then college: a boy with shaggy hair, so doped up and party-drunk he’d forget to eat for days, an endless carousel of girls whose names he couldn’t remember, the mornings he’d wake up in foreign countries on beaches with his shoes missing.

(“I haven’t done this in ages,” he’d said to her with a foggy, apologetic grin the night they’d first gotten together, and Kendra hated how what used to be one of her fondest memories made her gut clench with retrospective horror. She’d been the one to buy the first round of drinks, that night.)

“I don’t think anyone really expected it,” he was still whispering. “I mean, I was the brother of Tommy Kirkman, straight A fucking Boy Scout that he was.” Trey snorted. “No way was I gonna match that.”

_Who could?_ Kendra traced thoughtful patterns across his freckled chest. “I’m sure you weren’t as bad as you remember. I’ve seen photos of little Trey in his altar boy robes.” Kendra’s heart squeezed as she thought of them. Sandy hair. Dimples. A missing tooth. “You looked so sweet.”

Kendra caught a glimpse of that impish boy she’d heard so much about in her boyfriend’s half-second smirk. “I used to swig the communion wine.”

She laughed; she couldn’t help it. It won her a real smile from Trey, who seemed to have finally woken up as he flipped over to sprawl atop her, chin resting on his forearm as he gazed at her. “Yeah, I was bad to the bone.” 

Kendra’s hands rose to the back of his neck, kneading gently. Slowly, finally, some of the tension there seemed to be fading.

“Father Clancy had it out for me more than anyone,” Trey said, almost fondly. “He was this mean, Irish son of a bitch; used to always tell me—“ he summoned a shockingly good Irish accent—“Dollars to donuts, Kirkman, you’ll be doing time before your chin hairs come in.”

Kendra chuckled. “You showed him.” But the corner of Trey’s smile had dropped. There was a look that came over him that Kendra recognised: a long, connecting line from his childhood to now. She’d seen it lurking behind his gap-toothed grin, his clean shaven countenance; a distance, as if he had stepped into some foreign place that not even she could follow him to.

“Everything that you do in life,” he said softly. “It’s all got to come back to you eventually, doesn’t it?”

Kendra lived by arguments, but she’d been around long enough to know that there weren’t words for everything. She guided his head down to rest her forehead against his. Trey’s eyes, his mind, might have been far away, but the rest of him was right here, so Kendra held him tight, so close that she could feel more than hear his shaky sigh.

His lips moved against hers. “I’m sorry.”

“Shh. Enough of that.”

“No, no, let me—“ he pulled back to look at her properly, eyes suddenly, piercingly present. “Because I know what people are going to say, what they’re already saying.” His face was creased with lines that Kendra ached to smooth away. “You didn’t sign up to be the girlfriend of a junkie.”

Kendra scowled reflexively. “You’re not a junkie.”

(“I want to be straight with you,” Trey had said to her, eyes on his shaking hands. “I’m clean, and I wouldn’t—I won’t give that up, not for anything. But sometimes, on bad days, I-I still…)

With an indistinct sound, Trey nestled his face into the crook of her shoulder, laying silent as Kendra blinked hard at the ceiling. Pressed into her like this, she could feel Trey’s every tremor, down to the little puffs of air against her neck. He was practically enveloping her, and Kendra had never felt so warm.

“I signed up for you,' she said slowly, and felt the slight hitch in Trey’s breathing. “That doesn’t come with stipulations. Besides,” she added, “I’ve already yelled at Mars for lecturing me on this, so I’m committed now.”

Trey whuffled out a laugh into her collarbone. “My girlfriend’s a badass.”

“Please, you already knew that,” she said, nosing the crown of his head. Her lips, pressed into his hair, formed a smile. “By the way,” she whispered. “I used to sneak communion wine too.”

Trey’s chuckle vibrated through every part of her.

 

**June 23rd, 2018**

When Lyor and Emily had cornered him in his office to grill him on his approach for the Friday ‘un-convention,’ Tom knew it wasn’t going to be a conversation he’d enjoy.

(“We understand that this is a delicate situation,” Emily had begun, “but—“

Lyor chimed in. “You have to keep Trey around or people will start calling hypocrite.”

“Not that we’re calling you a hypocrite.”

“Oh, no, just that your actions are directly opposing everything that you claim to stand for as a candidate.” Lyor looked unperturbed as everybody glared daggers at him.)

What he hadn’t expected, however, was to have to almost literally beat Lyor back with a stick as his campaign manager cheerily suggested the idea of leaking the fact that Moss had the Alzheimer’s gene. He and Emily exchanged increasingly mortified looks as Lyor explained how he’d tested a cup sample he’d filched from last week’s APAC event, how it turned out that Moss had a 12x greater chance of cognitive decline, how “well, if you think about it, it’s like what they did to Trey, except actually relevant.” Lyor looked, for all the world, like a cat who’d just brought Tom a fat, juicy mouse; licking his jowls and waiting for approval.

“You do not want someone with Alzheimer’s answering the 3am crisis call; _trust me.”_

“What’s next, a break in at his cardiologist’s?” Emily asked incredulously. 

“The American people have the right to know!” He turned expectantly to Tom, who was busy wondering how the hell this had happened—surely Emily joining the campaign team should have tamped down Lyor’s insanity.

An image of Trey’s face as his darkest secret blasted from their screens froze in Tom’s head. His stomach turned.

“And Moss has the right not to, if that’s his choice, and we are certainly not going to be the people to make such a personal decision for him,” Tom said unrelentingly. “I wouldn’t want anyone making it for me.” Lyor looked pained, but Tom silenced any protest with a glare. “I forbid this; that’s final,” he snapped, perhaps a little harsher than was warranted. “Thank you.”

Bringing down the hammer on his campaign manager was a sight less than bloodying his rival’s nose, but on today of all days, it was bound to go down on somebody. There was so much inside of him that felt a second away from bursting, and Tom didn’t know what else to do with it. He breathed deep, and wished for Alex.

 

* * *

 

All things considered, it ended up being a quiet day. Kendra saw little of Mars, and even less of the President. She tried to imagine what she would say to him, but any of her attempts dissolved into thoughts of Trey’s drawn face last night, and she resigned herself to the fact that silence between the two of them was probably for the best right now. The realisation sat uncomfortably close to the memory of her and Mars, back when all this started, yelling at each other about loyalties. _If you knew anything about Tom Kirkman then you’d know there are no sides to this._ Kendra wasn’t used to being wrong about people. Least of all herself.

So, really, she was grateful for the quiet. For once in her life, she was tired of being asked to defend her position, to justify herself. She was tired of hearing the jammed record loop of her father’s voice handing down advice to her teenage self—“ _If you go through life remembering anything, Kennie, it’s this: never do anything just for some boy._ ” She was tired, truly, of men and their opinions. So when, laid out on her office couch with an arm flung over her eyes, she heard the tell-tale clatter of Lyor’s footsteps, she couldn’t help but groan.

Lyor, both man and walking Opinion, stopped short, or sounded like it. Now all she could hear was some odd rustling. “You don’t like tea?”

Kendra cracked one eye open “Huh?”

Thrust in her vision was a bulging plastic bag, which at least explained the crinkling. Kendra took it gingerly, easing herself into a sitting position, and Lyor claimed the space next to her as she sorted through its contents. It was tea, bags of it; a frankly ridiculous amount. Peppermint and green, ginseng and something called gotu kola. One lone box of chamomile—Kendra inhaled the stuff, but Lyor had once gone on a five minute rant about how it tasted like liquefied incense.

“It does have its merits,” he said reluctantly as she held it up questioningly. “For stress,” he clarified.

Kendra supposed she could have felt insulted, but instead she came around to feeling rather touched. That did tend to be Lyor’s sweet spot. She sorted the boxes into a rough pyramid on the table and reached down for her purse.

“I have my own trick for that,” she said, and pulled out a block of 70% chocolate. They all had their addictions; she’d been nibbling on it the whole day. She took a piece and handed the block to Lyor, watched him carefully snap off exactly one row and bite into it square by square.

“Vodka also works,” she said.

They ate in an unusual silence. Kendra didn’t ask about the campaign, didn’t ask Lyor to do the best he could for Trey. Not because she wasn’t supposed to involve herself in campaign matters—she wasn’t, but that wouldn’t have stopped her—but because she knew she didn’t have to. Because this was a job left unfinished, and it was ultimately about protecting the President, and because there were twenty five boxes of tea on her coffee table. 

“You know,” Lyor finally said as he licked a smudge of chocolate off his thumb. Kendra tensed. But he didn’t sound like his usual obnoxious self. He wasn’t looking at her, which could only mean he was twisting up inside. Kendra could read him like a book by now.“People never realise how much their reputation matters until they lose it.”

Kendra patted his knee. “I do know.”

“Then—“ Lyor frowned. She knew he had trouble with this. Its usefulness to the campaign aside, Lyor had been wary of her relationship with Trey from the start. His weird mix of ‘hassled political advisor’ and ‘wannabe overprotective big brother’ had been hilarious to watch at first, since a) he was quite a few years younger than her and b) so endlessly flustered by it all—but now his anxiety was palpable. In the meeting they’d had after Trey’s story broke, when Lyor’s eyes hadn’t been on the President, they’d been on her.

“Is he worth it, then?” he asked finally.

“This isn’t about choosing one or the other,” Kendra replied crossly. Lyor gave her a Look.

“He’s—“ Kendra wasn’t stupid. Happy endings, if they existed, were made, not given. “He’s worth it. I’ll work on the rest.” 

After a long second, Lyor nodded. “You’ve always liked a challenge,” was all he said. His tone told her he wasn’t convinced—but he could read her too, well enough to know that he couldn’t change her mind.

That, more than anything, was the reassurance that Kendra—loathe as she was to admit it—needed. It was so much easier to give into her inner cross-examiner—did she stall too much when she answered him? Was she too hasty?—when everybody expected doubt from her. 

Still, she was tired, and the quiet really was just too nice. She snapped herself off some more chocolate before handing the bar over to Lyor and leaning against his side. She felt his instinctive tensing, and then—slowly, slowly—he relaxed.

Kendra smiled. The chocolate melted velvety-sweet across her tongue. She wondered which tea it would go best with.

 

**June 24th, 2018**

Tom stared down at the sheet of paper in front of him, yawning in its blankness. The pen was a dead weight in his fingers. He had two days to write this speech: a rebuff of his family’s slander, the turnaround he so desperately needed. He’d brushed off speechwriters, but there were still the five pages of Lyor’s red inked scribble telling him what he should say, and how he should say it, and what he should not say under any circumstances. Still, it didn’t seem like any language he could translate onto paper.

He hadn’t seen or heard from his brother in two days. It seemed like he’d only just gotten settled into seeing him most days, but now, he supposed, he’d have to adjust to coming home to nobody but Penny. He knew Lyor was right—he’d have to be seen with Trey at some point—but Tom really didn’t want to think about that right now. Any talk of Trey staying in their lives, he knew, would involve an arduous negotiation with Penny; he could see it in the hopeful way her head bobbed up every time their door opened. Trey too, he was sure, would be waiting by the phone—not for him, but for his niece and nephew. Right now though, he didn’t want to be the reasonable parent, or the gracious brother. He just wanted to be angry.

Stupid, to let himself get his hopes up that this time would be different—but even worse that he’d let his children do the same, especially his little girl. Penny didn’t deserve to lose anyone else. She deserved reliability. Trust.

None of this was exactly good speechwriting material. Tom was considering throwing down the pen and making ‘winging it’ his official communications strategy when a notification sounded from the laptop he’d abandoned (in the futile hope that writing pen to paper would inspire him more). There at the top of the screen: _Call Request from Leo Kirkman._

Tom was never more happy to be distracted than when it was by his kids. He accepted the call and smiled as Leo’s face filled up the screen.

College life suited his son. It seemed like every time Tom saw him, a little more of the tension that had darkened his face since his mother’s death had faded. They chatted for a few minutes: Leo about coursework, Tom about the friendlier aspects of the campaign. He was in the midst of formulating a question about girlfriends that Leo wouldn’t be able to artfully dodge when he saw some of that old strain in his son’s smile. He braced himself.

“Hey, is, uh, is Uncle Trey there?”

Tom did his best to keep his face neutral. “Erm. No.”

“Okay….” Leo was threading the cord of his Stanford hoodie in between his fingers. “No as in, he’s not there right now but he’ll be back soon? Or...he’s not there and we’re not gonna see him for another six years?”

Having this conversation with Leo was easier than it would be with Penny, but it was still a far cry from _easy_. “Leo…”

“You guys had a falling out, right?” Leo said. “We’ve been texting. He hasn’t said anything, but I can tell something’s off.” At his father’s telltale silence, Leo dropped his head, fringe flopping into his eyes. “He’s been clean for years, Dad,” he said quietly. “Aren’t you all about second chances?”

“This...isn’t really about the drugs, Leo,” Tom explained gently. “This is about trust. Honesty. And when it comes to that, this is far from your uncle’s second chance.” He’d never really talked to the kids about his and Trey’s rocky past in much detail, mostly because of Alex’s stern disapproval. They hadn’t wanted to colour the kids’ perceptions of a man they barely knew. Worse now when all they knew was the good. “You’ve grown up with a family that’s always been able to lean on each other, so I know this might be hard for you to understand,” Tom said. “You love your Uncle Trey. That’s okay. But—“ his voice caught; he hoped Leo didn’t notice—“for me, it’s a little more complicated than that.”

He waited for a response, but Leo only frowned hard at his keyboard. Tom wasn’t sure if it was the camera, but he looked paler than normal. 

“Dad,” he said slowly. “You love me, right?”

Tom blinked, taken aback. “Yes, of course,” he said immediately.

“No matter what?”

“No matter what, Leo, what—?”

Leo blurted out less of a sentence and more of a garbled exhale: “Iusedtodealdrugs.”

That...must have been an audio glitch. “..Pardon me?”

Leo winced at his father’s flat tone. “For a while when I was like seventeen, I used to sell E for some extra cash on the side. That’s...actually what I was doing the night the Capitol was bombed.”

For the first time that night, Tom’s mind was tumbling with things he wanted to say. What had Leo been thinking? How could he have been so reckless? Did he realise what kind of risk he’d put himself at? He could have been hurt! Arrested! He’d never have gotten into law school with distribution on his record! Booming continuously above all that though: how did Tom not know? How could he have let this happen? With all this on the tip of his tongue, all Tom could manage was a stuttered: “Leo—“ before he was cut off.

“Mum knew, okay?” Leo burst out, and any words Tom might have mustered died right there. Was there a limit to the amount of shock the brain could process? Leo took advantage of his stunned silence. “She found out ages ago but she agreed not to tell you because she knew you’d freak out the same way you are now with Uncle Trey. So, your wife and son hid this from you for years. Shock horror, right? But—“ he licked his lips nervously. “Do you still love us?”

“Of course I do.” Tom said without hesitation. Through all the layers of shock and anger and desperate questions, that had never been in doubt.

Leo nodded firmly. “Then you’re right. I don’t understand.” Tom stared in blank confusion. “Uncle Trey made a mistake,” Leo explained. “Maybe more than one. But trust me, if he hid them from you for this long it was ‘cause he didn’t want to hurt you. Because he loves you. I think maybe you’ve been too busy being mad to remember that.” Leo’s voice faltered. “I...don’t want you to lose him too, Dad.”

That was a lot to weigh, but it was Leo’s last words that made him pause. This drug dealing kid was a stranger to him, but the boy—no, the man—he was looking at now, who had learned so well how to always look out for others; Tom knew him with all his heart.

“...Well argued,” Tom sighed, and Leo visibly relaxed. “No wonder you’re topping your classes.” He gave his son a stern look over his glasses. “We are going to discuss this, understand?”

“Yeah, yeah,“ Leo said reluctantly. “But...maybe not right now? I have Con Law in ten.”

“You timed this perfectly, didn’t you?”

Leo grinned innocently.

Tom shook his head in exasperation. “Fine, go.” Right before the call ended, he called out—because he had to. “I love you.”

Call over, Tom collapsed back in his seat, resting tingling fingertips to his temples. He felt a little less like he’d just been punched in the gut, but his mind still whirred. Truly, how could he not have known? To be fair, he’d had a lot on his mind around that time, but this had to have been going on long before the Capitol.

Leo said that he and Alex had hidden it from him so they wouldn’t hurt him. To protect him. As if protecting _them_ wasn’t the most important job in Tom’s world. It seemed incomprehensible that he could have failed so abysmally.

Unbidden, a memory from long ago flashed through his mind: Trey on the phone with him after their mother died, voice strained and unfamiliar. Trey, at twelve years old, curled up next to him on the lounge because he couldn’t sleep, yet again.

If protecting meant seeing what was wrong, what was right in front of him, then maybe Tom had been failing at this his whole life.

He called Mike in. “I need to take a trip.”

 

* * *

 

Tom couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this self-conscious as he sat in the back of the Secret Service SUV lurking out the front of Trey’s townhouse. He watched anxiously as Mike, shadowed by a couple more agents, knocked on the door, strained his ears in vain to hear the exchange as it opened. Two of the agents disappeared inside, and Trey’s bemused face poked out of the doorway, eyes landing instantly on the car where Tom sat. The glass, Tom knew, was too tinted for Trey to make him out, but he still had the unshakeable feeling of being seen.

“All clear,” the driver told him after receiving a radio message, and Tom was hurried to the door. Trey awkwardly ushered him inside, still looking baffled, shrugging off Tom’s apologies for the dramatic entrance. In an ideal world, he would be having this talk with this brother without the fanfare of the Secret Service, but, to be fair, nothing about his and Trey’s world had ever been ideal.

Trey had only been living here permanently for less than a year, but the space already looked incredibly homey. Old and new blended together; Tom spied a photo of their younger selves with mum sitting pride of place on the sideboard, and and a tattered Mets poster that he remembered from Trey’s twelve year old bedroom framed on the wall, but also shelves of books Tom had no idea his brother read, a CD case with music he didn’t recognise, photos of people he didn’t know. All of it, though, felt incredibly suited to his brother. The only thing that didn’t fit in was Tom.

“I’m realising I’ve never been here,” he said, turning to face Trey who was still lingering at the divider to the living room. “Doesn’t seem right.”

“Well, you are the President.” Trey seemed very interested in the floorboards. “Look, you didn’t have to go to all the effort of meeting me here. I could’ve just come while Penny was at school.”

Tom stared at his brother in blank incomprehension before what he meant finally clicked. Coming to meet Trey at his own place, on his own terms, seemed like such an obvious choice for Tom that it hadn’t even occurred to him that Trey would think it was to keep him away from Penny. “What—no, that’s not what I—“ This was going terribly before it even began. Tom gestured helplessly at the couch. “Can we sit down, Trey? Please?”

Trey looked visibly reluctant, eyes skirting the room like he expected Mike to burst in and force him to take a seat, but eventually he succumbed to the far edge of the couch. Tom took the other side, looking at his clasped hands as he tried to figure out exactly what he needed to say.

“I’ve been trying to write a speech for Friday, about my _support_ for you.” Even saying it now made him feel like a fraud. He shook his head disgustedly. “I couldn’t do it. Not after how we left things.” He snuck a glance at Trey, who just looked resigned. Probably he thought Tom was here to tell him all the reasons why the press was right to slander him.

“I said some things to you that I didn’t mean,” he continued insistently. Trey cocked an eyebrow.

“Yeah….but you did, though,” he said with a sad, knowing little smile. Before Tom could even think to protest, he went on. “And you were right. I mean...I’ve spent the last couple days asking myself—really asking myself—why I hid this from you. And the honest truth is that—that I was ashamed.” His head dropped. “And scared—a fucking coward.” Trey’s voice was a low, creaky monotone, face blank, but his fingers were digging into his arms hard enough that it must have hurt. There was rage lurking there, so foreign for his little brother. This anger—had Trey learnt it from him?

Tom shuffled along the couch, close enough that their knees were nearly brushing. “You’re not the coward here,” he said softly. “You can’t hide something from someone who isn’t even looking.”

Trey didn’t look up at him, but his face twitched—in relief or disagreement Tom couldn’t tell, but it was enough to know that Trey was hearing him. He sighed. “All your life, it was always easier to be angry at you. I’d tell myself you were acting out by choice, because...the alternative was seeing how much you were like mum.”

Tom had always tried only to remember the good times with their mum—and there were a lot. But he could never quite shake the darker times; the ones where she’d shut herself in her room for days, or the nights when she’d be dumping their laundry into the rain outside because “they’re hideous anyway, darling, we’ll get you some new ones.” The times when only his hand on her arm could bring her back to herself. He’d been a teenager—no, he’d been a child—and he’d been scared. With how tight he’d been holding onto her, no wonder he’d let Trey just slip through his fingers.

Reliability. Trust. That’s what he’d told himself he was mad about—and he was. But not for his own sake, not really.

“I-I’d seen what her illness had done to her,” Tom said shakily. Trey was looking at him now—and was it his imagination, or had he inched closer? “And I couldn’t bear to see that happen to you as well, so I looked away.” On an impulse, he grabbed at Trey’s arm. He needed him to understand, because god, it had taken himself so long—had taken his own son to spell it out for him—that he was afraid Trey wouldn’t be able to, and Tom’s foolishness would widen this rift between them even further until there was no repairing it. “That’s why I’m angry. Not at you. At myself. You’re my little brother, and you were in _so_ much pain, and I refused to see it. I refused to help you.”

Reliability. Trust. Trey deserved that more than anyone, and Tom had failed him.

Trey’s breathing was achingly slow and unsteady, like he was afraid he would lose control of it if he released himself. Was he furious at Tom’s pale excuses? God, he was almost afraid to look—but he did, and Trey’s eyes weren’t dark with anger. They were shimmering with barely restrained tears.

“I-I didn’t want—“ Trey forced out his words through gritted teeth. “I never wanted you to—to _have to_ help me.” He grinned the most agonised grin Tom had ever seen. “For once in my life, I just didn’t wanna be the fuckup, y’know?” He pressed the back of his hand over his eyes, shaking his head furiously as if he could dislodge the weight of emotion gripping him.

Tom grasped his little brother’s shoulder, feeling tremors beneath his palm. “You and I are so different, Trey” he urged. “I fall so easily back into old habits—into anger—because it‘s easy. But you‘ve only ever gone forwards. No fuckup could do that.

Trey’s nod was lost within the trembling wracking his whole form. And when he collapsed, he didn’t fall into Tom’s arms, because Tom caught him before he had the chance. His little brother’s face buried in his chest, Tom felt warm tears begin to soak into his shirt. Trey cried silently, except for the choked off words he was mumbling, over and over. “I’m sorry. I’m just sorry.” Tom, nose pressed into Trey’s hair, felt himself begin to give in to the same. At that moment, it didn’t seem strange. They weren’t breaking down over just a fight; this ran so much deeper. They were grieving together, in a way they’d never gotten a chance to. For lost time, for anger, for each other’s pain. They grieved for their mother—not miles apart, but side by side, as it should have been twelve years ago.

Tom didn’t even care that the Secret Service could hear them. He didn’t care about the speech waiting, nonexistent, on his desk. They had time for that later. He only cared about this moment, as he and Trey held each other the way they hadn’t done since they were children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I stg I AM going to be going back to Hannah, it’s just that I keep underestimating how many chapters each of these plot points will take, and they keep snowballing. I promise that, if all goes to plan, we should be kicking off Hannah’s side of things chapter after next, so look forward to that!

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t want to rehash identical scenes from the show, so if something is brushed over or not talked about, just assumed it happened the same way as it did in canon.
> 
> I’m very busy with school at the moment, so updates may be slow. Stay tuned for more!


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